HELPING  THE  HELPLESS 


BxLUCY  SEAMAN  BAINBRIDCE>rt* 


Helping  the  Helpless 


Helping  the  Helpless 

In  Lower  New  York 


BY 


LUCY  SEAMAN  BAINBRIDGE 

Hon.  Suft.  Woman's  Branch,  New  York  City  Mission  Society 
,  Author  of ' '  Round  the  World  Letters  " 


INTRODUCTION  BY 
REV.  A.  F.  SCHAUFFLER,  D.D. 


NEW  YORK  CHICAGO          TORONTO 

Fleming  H.  Revell  Company 

LONDON     ANP     EDINBURGH 


Copyright,  1917,  bjr 
FLEMING  H.  REVELL  COMPANY 


Printtd  m  tht  Vnittd  Stattt  tf  Amtrica 


Kew  York:  158  Fifth  Arena* 
Chicago:  17  North  Wabash  Ave. 
London :  ai  Paternoster  Square 
Edinburgh:  75  Princes  Street 


TO 

MY  SON 

WHO  HAS  EVER  BEEN 
"MY  STRONG  STAFF" 


N15B/6 


o 

CO 


UJ 

>— 


INTRODUCTION 

BY  REV.  A.  F.  SCHAUFFLER,  D.D. 
President  New  York  City  Mission  Society 


Y  long  acquaintance  with 
Mrs.  Lucy  S.  Bainbridge 
has  given  me  abundant 
opportunity  to  judge  of 
her  work  as  Superintend- 
ent of  the  Woman's  Branch  of  the  New 
York  City  Mission  Society.  For  eighteen 
years  she  showed  great  ability  and  tact  in 
dealing  with  the  difficult  problems  pertain- 
ing to  her  office.  For  this  she  had  had 
abundant  preparation,  having  gone  around 
the  world  on  a  kind  of  missionary  tour,  in- 
specting various  missionary  fields.  This  ex- 
perience fitted  her  peculiarly  for  undertak- 
ing the  work  in  our  cosmopolitan  city. 

With  untiring  zeal,  with  marked  ability, 
and  with  a  never-failing  courage,  she  faced 

5 


6  Introduction 


and  discharged  the  duties  that  came  to  her. 
Mrs.  Bainbridge  was  peculiarly  apt  in  deal- 
ing with  individual  cases.  These  character- 
istics are  shown  very  markedly  in  the  story 
she  has  to  tell  of  her  dealings  with  those 
who  are  in  peculiar  danger,  morally  as  well 
as  physically.  These  stories,  true  to  life, 
cannot  fail  to  fascinate  the  sympathetic 
reader  who,  on  putting  the  book  down,  will 
thank  Mrs.  Bainbridge  for  having  put  pen 
to  paper,  to  record  such  thrilling  experiences. 
In  all  her  work  the  author  has  put  the 
spiritual  firft.  This  has  been  the  policy  of 
the  New  York  City  Mission  Society  from  its 
start.  She  knows  full  well  that  when  help 
extends  only  to  needs  material,  or  even  to 
needs  intellectual,  the  deepest  nature  of  man 
has  not  yet  been  reached.  You  can  clothe 
a  degenerate,  and  feed  him,  and  house  him, 
and  he  may  still  remain  a  degenerate.  Mere 
"social  uplift"  does  not  change  man's  char- 
acter, and  in  this  world  of  temptation  and 
sin,  our  aim  should  be  predominantly  that 


Introduction 


change  of  character  which,  if  it  really  takes 
place,  governs  the  whole  life  for  all  time. 
To  this  end  Mrs.  Bainbridge's  efforts  were 
always  attuned,  and  the  success  with  which 
she  met  was  most  gratifying  and  calls  for 
gratitude  to  God  for  his  Divine  assistance. 

It  is  only  fair  to  say,  to  Mrs.  Bainbridge's 
credit,  that  if  there  be  any  royalty  corning  to 
her  after  publication,  she  desires  to  donate 
it  straight  to  the  Treasury  of  the  Woman's 
Branch  of  the  New  York  City  Mission. 


FOREWORD 

ROM  years  of  experience  in 
downtown  New  York  I 
have  culled  a  few  inci- 
dents of  real  life,  and  am 
putting  them  in  print  with 
several  reasons  in  mind. 

I  would  fain  try  to  help  the  good  work  of 
the  Woman's  Branch  of  the  New  York  City 
Mission  Society,  of  which  it  was  my  privi- 
lege to  be  the  Superintendent  for  many 
years. 

To  the  faithful  workers,  missionaries  and 
nurses  of  that  Society,  who  are  at  all  times 
and  in  all  weathers  giving  comfort  and  care, 
and  the  love  of  Christ,  among  the  poor,  I 
would  add  my  word  of  encouragement  and 
praise. 

To  those  who  stand  behind  these  workers, 
and,  by  the  giving  of  money,  and  sympathy, 

9 


10  Foreword 

and  prayer,  keep  the  work  ever  moving,  be- 
longs a  reward  that  cannot  be  estimated. 

Part  of  our  host  have  crossed  the  Flood, 
but  so  large-hearted  and  far-sighted  were 
they,  that  though  we  no  longer  see  their 
faces  or  hear  their  voices,  their  generous 
support  of  the  work  goes  on  and  on.  Mrs. 
Jesup,  Mrs.  Osborn,  Mrs.  Dodge,  Mrs. 
Fernald,  and  others, — all  our  noble  givers, 
— though  called  dead,  are  yet,  among  many 
other  beneficences,  building  up  the  kingdom 
of  Christ  on  the  earth,  in  downtown  New 
York. 

Another  reason  for  recording  these  sim- 
ple stories,  is  that  I  want  my  grandchildren, 
in  the  years  to  come,  to  know  and  to  love 
the  work  their  grandmother  tried  to  do 
while  she  was  here. 

I  have  selected  these  incidents  from  very 
many,  taking  only  those  that  had  a  good 
ending.  In  the  work  of  building  up  Chris- 
tian character,  whether  downtown  or  else- 
where, there  is  much  need  of  patience  and 


Foreword  11 

charity,  and  there  are  many  disappoint- 
ments; but  why  dwell  on  the  dark  side — 
all  work  for  God  is  really  successful.  Other 
real  stories,  more  interesting  than  these,  if 
told,  would  bring  in  a  personal  element,  that 
would  be  unfair,  perhaps,  to  those  who  have 
lived  downtown,  in  the  so-called  "slums," 
and  who  are  to-day,  by  the  blessing  of  God, 
in  high  places  of  usefulness  and  dignified 
position. 

In  all  this  work,  with  its  varied  demands, 
not  only  have  we  needed  the  generous  sup- 
port of  the  members  of  the  Woman's 
Branch,  but  the  work  has  demanded  Fresh 
Air  money,  clothing,  the  Easter  Fund,  and 
the  giving  and  help  of  such  royal  girls,  as 
those  of  the  Dobb's  Ferry  School. 

For  whatever  of  good  has  been  accom- 
plished, the  praise  belongs  to  all  these 
givers. 

L.  S.  B. 

New  York  City. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  VAOX 

I.  "  UNDERNEATH  ARE  THE  EVERLAST- 
ING ARMS  " 17 

II.  AN  ADVERTISEMENT 25 

III.  ALL  ROADS  LEAD  TO  NEW  YORK..  55 

IV.  MY  SANCTUM 64 

V.  A  TENEMENT  DAISY 71 

VI.  A  COMPANION 81 

VII.  A  LITTLE  PROPERTY 90 

VIII.  FRAULEIN 101 

IX.  BONNIE  MARY 122 

X.  "  KETCHED  UP  " 129 

XI.  AGED  PILGRIMS 134 

XII.  JOHN 147 

XIII.  "  His  FATHER  SAW  HIM  " 158 

XIV.  SCHOLARSHIPS 165 


13 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


OPPOSITE 
PACK 


One   of   the   Streets  of  Lower  New 

York Title 

Five  Boys  were  Born  in  this  Poorest 

of  Homes 38 

A  Typical  Boy  of  the  Street 38 

A  Future  Citizen 56 

A  Little  Curly-Head 72 

Little  Burden  Bearers 92 

Fraulein  as  She  was  Dressed  on  the 

Steamer  and  when  Rescued 106 

Fraulein,  now  Mrs.  Fritz,  with  her 

Husband,  and  their  Two  Boys  ....  106 

An  Aged  Pilgrim 136 

A  Whirlpool  of  Humanity 160 

A  Basement  Home. .  ,  166 


15 


"UNDERNEATH    ARE    THE    EVER- 
LASTING ARMS" 


T  was  a  strange  sight,  that 
windy  afternoon  on  lower 
Broadway,  to  see  a  tall 
man  of  refined,  cultured 
appearance,  calling  out 
newspapers  in  the  midst  of  the  small  news- 
boys. Both  his  accent  and  his  manner  were 
those  of  an  English  gentleman. 

My  errand  down  town  had  taken  me  in 
the  car  to  the  corner  where  he  stood,  and  I 
could  not  pass  him  by  without  trying  to 
solve  the  mystery.  "Pardon  me,"  I  said, 
"but  you  are  an  English  gentleman.  May 
I  ask  why  you  are  selling  papers  on  this 
city  street  ?" 

"Thank  you,  madam,"  he  replied,  "I  am 
frank  to  say, — because  I  am  a  stranger,  I 
have  a  sick  wife,  and  have  no  money." 

17 


18  Helping  the  Helpless 

I  told  him  I  was  interested  in  helping  just 
such  strangers,  and  if  he  would  give  me  his 
address  I  would  be  glad  to  go  to  his  wife 
and  take  a  trained  nurse. 

The  next  morning,  with  a  City  Mission 
nurse,  carrying  her  bag  filled  >  with  every- 
thing needed  for  an  emergency,  I  found  the 
high  building  downtown,  the  address  of 
which  he  had  given  me.  The  man,  himself, 
was  out  selling  his  papers.  We  stumbled 
up  the  dark  stairs,  flight  after  flight,  littered 
with  broken  pieces  of  plaster  from  the  walls, 
until  at  last  we  reached  the  top  floor,  and  in 
the  dark  hall  groped  for  the  door. 

In  response  to  our  knock  an  Irishwoman, 
whose  breath  was  heavy  with  gin,  opened 
the  door  and  welcomed  us.  The  room  into 
which  we  were  invited  had  two  windows 
looking  out  over  the  street;  two  beds — or 
rather  one  bed,  and  a  sort  of  "shakedown," 
where  the  Irishwoman  and  her  grown  son 
slept ;  a  stove,  a  table,  a  few  chairs,  and  the 
tubs,  completed  the  furnishings. 


Underneath  are  the  Everlasting  Arms    1 9 

Opening  out  of  this  room  was  a  sort  of 
alcove  room,  guiltless  of  windows,  but  boast- 
ing of  double  doors  between  it  and  the 
front  room,  the  only  air  and  light  coming 
from  the  front  room.  Here  two  lodgers — 
longshoremen — slept,  and  as  they  often 
worked  until  late  in  the  night,  the  doors 
were  left  open  all  the  rest  of  the  time. 

Next  there  was  a  small  room,  which 
might  have  been  called  a  good-sized  closet, 
had  it  not  been  for  its  slanting  roof.  As  it 
was,  it  deserved  no  better  name  than  "poke- 
hole."  There  was  no  light,  and  no  air  ex- 
cepting that  which  came  from  the  front 
room,  through  the  longshoremen's  alcove. 
Imagine  what  it  meant  when  the  double 
doors  were  closed! 

In  this  stifling  place,  on  a  bed  made  up  of 
boards,  a  straw  mattress,  and  an  old  com- 
fortable, lay  the  Englishman's  wife.  The 
Irish  landlady  had  been  very  kind  to  her, 
and  allowed  her  the  privilege,  whenever  she 
was  able  to  get  around,  of  her  son's  "shake- 


20  Helping  the  Helpless 

down"  in  the  front  room,  with  its  good  air 
and  light. 

The  story  she  told  us  was, — her  father 
in  England  had  died;  there  was  a  little 
money  then  coming  to  her ;  they  were  young, 
and  wanted  to  make  a  place  for  themselves 
in  life,  which  did  not  seem  possible  to  them 
in  England;  they  came  to  Manitoba,  put 
their  money  into  a  venture  there,  and 
seemed  to  start  out  well. 

One  day  a  high  wind  swept  over  the  place, 
a  fire  broke  out,  which  could  not  be  con- 
trolled, and  they  lost  everything  they  pos- 
sessed down  to  their  clothing.  Then  they 
said  to  each  other: 

"If  we  can  only  get  to  New  York — that 
great  and  prosperous  city — we  can  find 
work  and  begin  again.  We'll  surely  get 
along!" 

Enough  money  was  gathered  together  to 
enable  them  to  take  the  journey  to  New 
York,  and  to  live  for  a  few  weeks.  The 
husband,  upon  reaching  the  city,  tried  every 


Underneath  are  the  Everlasting  Arms   21 

avenue  possible  to  get  work.  He  went  into 
office  after  office,  shop  after  shop,  building 
after  building,  beginning  down  on  lower 
Broadway.  His  shoes  became  worn,  his 
clothes  became  shabbier  and  shabbier,  they 
moved  from  more  comfortable  lodgings  to 
cheaper,  until  at  length  they  reached  the 
miserable  place  which  the  Irish  landlady 
could  rent  to  them,  at  a  very  low  price. 
When  his  money  had  dwindled  down,  to  only 
eight  cents,  and  he  had  pawned  his  overcoat, 
he  started  out  on  the  street  corner  to  peddle 
papers. 

After  three  years  of  married  life  they 
were  expecting  their  first  little  one. 

When  they  were  leaving  their  English 
home,  the  Christian  mother  had  given  them 
a  Scripture  text,  which  they  were  always  to 
repeat,  and  remember  as  her  word  to  them, 
— "Underneath  are  the  everlasting  arms — 
the  Eternal  God  is  thy  refuge."  "Never 
forget  it,  Mary,  whatever  country  you  are 
in,  whatever  troubles  you  may  have  to  face, 


Helping  the  Helpless 


that  God  is  eternal  and  His  arms  are  ever- 
lasting. Your  grandfather  was  a  man  of 
God,  and  a  preacher,  and  it  was  his  word 
to  me,  and  now  I  am  passing  it  on  to  you. 
Never  stop  praying,  and  always  remember 
that  whether  you  realize  it  or  not,  God  is 
your  refuge." 

And  out  of  the  window  of  the  Irish  wo- 
man's room  on  the  street,  high  up  above  the 
noise  and  the  passers-by,  as  near  to  Heaven 
as  she  could  get,  the  little  English  woman, 
day  after  day,  had  stretched  out  her  hands 
from  the  window,  and  said  over  and  over 
again  that  text,  given  her  by  her  mother. 
Afterward,  between  grateful  tears  and 
smiles  she  said,  "I  cried  unto  the  Lord  and 
He  heard  me,  —  He  sent  you  in  answer  to 
my  prayers." 

The  time  for  the  coming  of  the  little  one 
was  at  hand,  and  the  prospective  mother 
longed  greatly  to  see  her  own  mother,  so 
they  decided  to  look  no  longer  for  work,  or 
to  try  to  make  a  home  for  themselves  on  this 


Underneath  are  the  Everlasting  Arms   23 

side  of  the  Atlantic.  Through  the  British 
Consulate  we  secured  passage  for  them  on 
an  outgoing  steamer  for  England,  and  made 
every  preparation  for  their  sailing  early  the 
next  Saturday  morning.  But  the  Thursday 
night  before,  the  little  one  came.  Then 
clothing  for  the  mother  and  baby  and  neces- 
sary comforts  for  their  voyage  were  pro- 
vided, by  kind  friends  of  our  work,  and  the 
nurse  carrying  the  baby,  and  the  husband 
carrying  the  wife  down  the  stairs,  they  were 
put  into  a  cab,  and  taken  to  the  steamer. 

Just  before  going  on  board  the  ship,  the 
grateful  man  turned  to  say  "good-bye," — 
and,  as  he  thanked  me  again,  he  said,  after 
much  hesitation,  "Am  I — am  I — am  I  ask- 
ing too  much,  if  I  should  ask  one  more  favor 
— just  one  more  favor?"  Visions  of  his 
seeking  for  a  big  loan  of  money,  the  fear 
that  perhaps  he  had  not  been  as  true  as  we 
had  thought  him,  came  over  my  mind,  and 
rather  coldly  I  replied  that  he  might  tell  me 


24  Helping  the  Helpless 

of  the  "one  more  favor,"  and  I  would  gladly 
grant  it,  if  I  could. 

Again  thanking  me  for  all  the  kindness 
that  had  passed  through  my  hands  to  them, 
he  said  "The  favor  I  should  like  to  ask  is 
this — will  you  please  name  the  baby?"  It 
was  a  pleasure,  indeed,  to  give  to  this  little 
English  baby,  yet  American  born,  the  name 
of  my  own  boy. 

Months  afterward,  I  had  a  letter  from  the 
man  saying  they  had  had  a  good  voyage,  a 
warm  welcome,  that  the  wife  and  baby  were 
at  the  mother's  home  in  Sussex,  and  that  he 
had  obtained  a  fair  position. 


II 


AN  ADVERTISEMENT 

tt  ii-^ ==a  WANT   to   go  to  New 

York,  Aunt  Jennie.  I'm 
tired  of  this  stupid  old 
town.  I  feel  like  break- 
ing away  and  trying  for 
a  job  where  things  are  moving.  If  I  keep 
books  here  in  this  factory,  surely  I  can  get 
a  start  at  something  in  New  York  and  work 
myself  up." 

It  was  a  pleasant  room,  with  its  old-fash- 
ioned furniture,  dainty  curtains,  and  grow- 
ing plants,  and  a  canary  swinging  content- 
edly in  its  gilded  cage  in  the  bay-window. 

A  girl  sat  at  the  window,  gazing  intently 
beyond  the  little  yard  into  the  street  with  its 
few  passers-by. 

With  the  weekly  paper  on  her  lap,  and 
spectacles  pushed  up  on  her  forehead,  an 

25 


26  Helping  the  Helpless 

older  woman  quietly  listened,  and  not  until 
a  sigh  escaped  her  lips  did  the  girl  turn. 

"Viry,"  and  the  aunt's  voice  quivered  as 
she  spoke,  "You're  all  I  got.  You  know  I 
can't  git  along  without  you.  We'll  take  a 
trip  to  New  York  soon's  we  can  manage  it. 
I  do  want  to  git  this  little  mortgage  off,  and 
then  if  anything  happens  to  me  you'll  have 
a  home  clear — a  woman  can  git  on  putty 
comf'table  if  she's  got  a  home — after  that 
we'll  go  together,  and  see  New  York,  Viry." 

"But  that  isn't  it,  Auntie,  I  can't  settle 
down  in  this  dull  old  town.  Settle  down  in 
a  prison?  Oh,  I  never  can!  I  go  down  the 
same  long  street — past  the  same  houses — 
the  same  store  and  postoffice — the  same  old 
yards,  where  the  same  old  things  are  hang- 
ing on  the  lines,  except  perhaps  for  a  new 
patch  or  two.  Then  at  night  I  come  back 
— same  old  street — same  people.  Truly,  I 
am  like  a  prisoner  pacing  up  and  down  his 
cell." 

"I  know  how  you  feel  mor'n  you  think," 


An  Advertisement  27 

replied  the  older  woman  gently,  "but  it's 
prison  all  through  life,  Viry — if  'tisn't  one 
kind  'tis  another.  I've  found  that  out. 
Wa'n't  that  John  Farnum  went  by  just  now  ? 
Poor  fellow!  What  a  sorry  time  he's  had 
— and  now  that  motherless  baby  to  care  for. 
I'm  glad  the  old  aunt  has  come  to  help  out 
a  spell— old  aunts  is  pretty  good  to  have 
around  sometimes,  hey?" 

"Oh,  you  dear  Aunt  Jennie,  I  know  what 
you're  thinking  of,"  said  the  girl,  as  she 
quickly  left  her  seat  at  the  window,  and 
threw  herself  down  on  the  floor  beside  her 
aunt,  putting  her  head  on  her  lap.  And  as 
the  twilight  gathered,  they  clung  to  each 
other — the  old  withered  hand  gently  strok- 
ing the  curly  brown  head. 

"I'll  never  marry  him,  Auntie,  I  just  know 
what  you're  thinking  of — I'll  never  marry 
him.  He  ought  never  to  have  believed  that 
story — I  suppose  I  was  hasty  and  spoke  too 
quick,  but  I  was  mad,  and  maybe — well, 
we're  friends  again,  anyway,  and  that's  what 


28  Helping  the  Helpless 

we'll  stay  now — never,  never  anything  else. 
He  was  down  at  the  mill  last  week  and  had 
the  baby  girl  with  him— cute  little  thing. 
The  men  talked  so  loud  little  Molly  put  out 
her  arms  to  come  to  me,  and  then  cuddled 
up  close,  as  though  she  was  afraid  and 
wanted  a  woman  to  hold  her.  Don't  you 
think  any  more  about  John  Farnum,  Auntie, 
that's  all  past  and  gone.  He's  likely  to  go 
to  Roxton  again,  and  come  back  engaged  to 
one  of  those  nice  girls  down  there.  It's  all 
right.  Men  can  slip  away  easy  when  they 
have  trouble.  They  don't  have  to  stay  be- 
hind prison  bars,  do  they?  Poor  Molly 
didn't  stay  long,  even  in  her  happiness — 
only  a  little  over  a  year — and  now  here's  her 
precious  baby — motherless.  I'm  sorry  for 
her — I'm  sorry  for  myself.  Life  seems  gray 
and  dull — I'm  gray — Gray  by  name  and  I 
guess  I'm  gray  by  nature — gray  inside  and 
gray  outside — but  there's  one  thing  shines 
bright,  sure,  I  do  love  my  own  dear  Aunt 
Jennie." 


An  Advertisement  29 

Taking  the  girl's  face  between  her  hands, 
the  aunt  talked  kindly  and  practically  to  her 
about  helping  other  girls  of  the  village,  and 
becoming  interested  in  some  of  the  forms  of 
work  and  pleasure  in  the  church,  of  the 
social,  literary  and  musical  life,  which  really 
could  be  found,  though  in  small  measure, 
even  in  their  little  town. 

"Elviry,  have  a  share  in  all  these  things. 
There's  lots  of  happy  doings  right  here. 
You're  needed — just  you.  What  was  it  the 
man  said  who  preached  for  our  minister  last 
Sunday — 'Be  in  harmony  with' " 

"With  your  environment,"  added  the  girl, 
"Be  in  harmony  with  your  environment,  but 
make  it  broader  every  day  until  it  reaches 
the  eternal  horizon." 

"That's  it,  I  know,  but  I  can't  say  it.  Now, 
run  along,  child,  to  the  Song  Service. 
You've  got  a  good  voice,  Viry.  Give  out  the 
best  you  have  and  the  best'll  come  back 
to  you.  I'll  have  a  nice  bit  of  supper  ready 
when  you  get  back,  and  if  you  see  any  lone- 


Helping  the  Helpless 


some  girl  ask  her  to  come  along  with  you. 
There's  plenty — for  Sunday  night  is  a  lone- 
some time  for  them  that  hasn't  any  home." 

Days  became  weeks,  and  Elvira  Gray's 
feeble  attempts  to  become  a  part  of  the  vil- 
lage activities  gradually  died  out;  and  she 
trudged  along  to  and  from  the  mill  at  the 
other  end  of  the  long  street,  with  a  mental 
fog  settling  down  over  her  heart  and  her 
face,  until  she  began  to  look  like  her  name 
—gray ! 

John  Farnum  had  gone  away  on  a  long 
business  trip,  and  his  baby,  Molly,  had  been 
taken  to  visit  the  mother's  relatives  in  Rox- 
ton. 

A  paper  dropped  from  the  pocket  of  a 
Chicago  drummer,  near  her  desk,  one  day 
at  the  mill,  and  as  Elvira  picked  it  up  she 
glanced  at  the  advertisements,  with  the  half- 
thought  of  rinding  that  some  firm  in  that 
great  city  needed  a  bookkeeper,  but  her  eye3 
fell  on  this: 


An  Advertisement  31 

WANTED:  A  retired  business  man  of  New 
York  City,  who  has  been  too 
much  engrossed  with  his  work  to 
care  for  social  life,  desires  cor- 
respondence with  a  young  lady 
under  thirty,  with  a  view  to  mat- 
rimony, 

"There  can't  be  any  harm  in  it,"  Elvira 
said  to  herself,  "and  I'll  get  a  little  fun. 
I'm  several  years  under  thirty,  and  he  does- 
n't mention  beauty  or  a  fortune — I'll  write, 
just  to  see  what  comes  of  it." 

Her  letter  was  soon  answered,  and  fol- 
lowed by  others.  The  "retired  business 
man"  explained  how  he  had  made  his  money 
by  denying  himself  the  pleasures  most 
young  men  indulge  in,  and  now,  as  the 
years  loomed  up  before  him,  he  realized  the 
loneliness  which  would  be  his.  His  mother 
had  died,  then  a  sister — he  had  few  rela- 
tives and  none  very  near.  He  was  a  lonely 
man,  and  longed  to  find  just  the  woman 
who  would  be  suitable,  pleasant  and  com- 
panionable, for  his  older  life. 

As  the  letters  grew  longer  and  came  more 


32  Helping  the  Helpless 

frequently,  and  were  filled  with  bright  pic- 
tures of  life  in  the  great  Metropolis,  the 
girl's  face  brightened,  and  she  went  daily  to 
and  from  the  mill  with  the  springing  step 
of  a  few  years  before. 

"Elviry,"  said  the  aunt  one  day,  as  she 
stood  waiting  on  the  porch  for  her  com- 
ing, "you  seem  so  much  younger,  and  the 
pink  has  come  back  into  your  cheeks  a  little 
— been  takin'  that  tonic  I  urged  you  to  try? 
Something  makes  you  glad — what  is  it? 
But  then  again  you  look  anxious  and  wor- 
ried. I've  been  watchin'  you.  Come  in — 
tell  me  about  it."  Putting  her  arm  closely 
about  the  girl,  she  continued: 

"Viry,  I'm  too  old  not  to  see  things — 
you've  got  something  on  your  mind — I've 
been  seein'  it.  I'm  the  only  mother  you've 
got — now,  tell  me." 

With  many  a  halt,  with  many  an  excuse, 
and  with  much  hesitation,,  the  story  of  the 
unknown  lover  was  told.  The  aunt  listened, 
as  the  awful  fear  of  all  it  might  mean 


An  Advertisement  33 

clutched  at  her  heart.  Stifling  a  groan 
which  arose  in  her  throat,  she  said: 

"Oh,  Viry,  show  me  his  picture — what  is 
he  like — I'm  scared  for  you — how  can  you 
tell  that  it's  all  right?  Oh  dear,  Oh  dear!" 

"Now,  Auntie,  please  listen.  He  has  a 
pretty  home — it's  what  he  calls  'a  flat' — with 
nine  rooms  facing  on  a  small  park, — and 
there's  to  be  a  place  always  for  you,  always 
for  you.  I  wrote  him  about  you,  and  how 
you  had  been  my  mother  ever  since  I  was  a 
little  baby,  and  how  good  you  have  always 
been  to  me,  and  how  I  do  love  you.  He 
says  it  will  give  him  real  happiness  to  have 
a  room  all  fitted  up  for  you,  and  he  thinks 
more  of  me,  he  says,  for  being  so  true  to 
you." 

"But,"  and  the  girl's  face  became  a  vivid 
red,  as  she  went  on,  "he  wants  me  to  come 
on  and  be  there  a  few  weeks  to  help  him  to 
get  things  fixed  up  before  you  come — do 
you  see?  He  seems  a  very  lonely  man, 
auntie,  with  few  friends." 


34  Helping  the  Helpless 

The  unknown  bachelor  made  no  mention 
in  his  letters  about  money,  but  suggested  as 
the  apartment  was  being  painted  and  deco- 
rated that  his  future  bride  might  like  to  send 
on  any  silver,  glassware  or  linen  by  freight, 
and  he  would  attend  to  the  unpacking,  and 
so  save  her  the  trouble,  and  have  the  place 
seem  more  homelike  when  she  arrived. 

Accordingly,  two  boxes  of  treasured  keep- 
sakes were  packed,  crated  and  shipped;  a 
box  of  preserves  and  jellies  was  also  sent, 
with  bill-of-lading  to  the  gentleman  in  New 
York. 

"Oh,  Auntie,  I  feel  really  acquainted  with 
Mr.  Stemson.  I've  learned  through  his  let- 
ters that  he  is  awfully  fond  of  sweet  pota- 
toes, and  you  know  how  fine  they  are,  in 
this  part  of  the  country.  I'm  going  to  sur- 
prise him  by  sending  on  a  barrel,  just  before 
I  go,  keeping  the  bill-of-lading,  and  attend- 
ing to  it  myself  after  I  get  there. 

"Yes,  Auntie,  I  too  am  sorry  he  can't 
come  down,  and  you  see  him  and  we  be 


An  Advertisement  35 

married  right  here.  I've  been  hoping  right 
along  he  could— but  he  says  I've  no  idea 
how  busy  a  man  can  be  in  New  York.  Even 
though  he  is  not  in  active  business  he  has 
many  things  to  attend  to  every  day.  It's 
likely  he  has  stocks  and  bonds  and  banking 
to  look  after,  and  has  to  go  to  Wall  Street, 
and  all  that.  But,  he  will  meet  me  at  the 
train,  and  if  anything  should  happen  to  keep 
him  away,  or  if  the  train  should  be  over 
late,  I  have  full  directions  where  I  am  to  go, 
and  I  am  just  to  take  one  of  those  new 
cabs  called  a  'taxi'  at  the  station — so  you 
see  how  perfectly  easy  it  will  be." 

"Elviry,"  interrupted  her  aunt,  "I  can't 
let  you  go  this  way.  I'm  sick  with  fear — 
you  must  let  me  talk  with  the  pastor,  and  ask 
him  to  find  out  about  this  Mr.  Stemson — he 
must  know  people  in  New  York  who  can  tell 
whether  all  this  is  true,  and  the  man  all 
right.  Viry,  I  can't  let  you  go  this  way — 
Oh,  I  can't!  I  can't!" 

"Nobody  is  to  know,  Auntie,"  said  the 


36  Helping  the  Helpless 

girl  very  decidedly,  "until  I  send  the  wed- 
ding cards.  I  won't  have  this  village  get  to 
talking.  They  must  just  think  I'm  going  on 
a  trip  to  see  a  friend — that  is  perfectly  true 
— Mr.  Stemson  is  now  my  friend.  I'll  send 
word  as  soon  as  the  wedding's  over,  and  if 
I  can — yes,  I'll  do  it — I'll  send  some  wed- 
ding cake,  and  then  the  people  may  talk 
all  they  want  to, — but  not  one  word  now. 
And  then  soon,  very  soon,  you'll  come  and 
we'll  be  together  again.  Oh,  cheer  up, 
Auntie,  cheer  up." 

Faithfully  and  patiently  the  aunt  tried  to 
show  the  girl  the  danger  of  trusting  a  man 
she  knew  only  through  correspondence; 
urged  her  to  tell  their  minister,  and  have 
him  make  inquiries,  and  then,  as  a  last  re- 
source, begged  to  be  allowed  to  accompany 
her  to  New  York,  but  all  in  vain ;  she  found 
it  impossible  to  change  the  plans  of  the 
headstrong  girl. 

But  when  Elvira  was  starting,  with  her 
arm  close  about  the  girl,  the  aunt  said, 


An  Advertisement  37 

"Viry,  ye  won't  let  me  go  with  ye,  but  I'll 
follow  ye,  and  hold  ye  with  my  prayers — 
God's  in  New  York  too,  and  He'll  watch 
over  ye." 

The  Western  train  came  rushing  in  to  the 
great  station  three  quarters  of  an  hour  late. 
Elvira  was  swept  along  with  the  crowd  of 
passengers,  a  "red  cap"  porter  seized  her 
bag,  and  hurried  her  on  to  a  stand  where 
cabs  and  taxies  were  waiting. 

"Of  course  he  won't  be  here  now.  There's 
no  use  looking.  I  do  wonder  if  I  would 
know  him,  anyway.  A  photo  is  so  different, 
sometimes,  and  mine  of  him  was  taken  so 
long  ago." 

Such  thoughts  surged  through  the  girl's 
mind,  as,  bewildered  and  fearful,  she  al- 
lowed herself  to  be  helped  into  one  of  the 
taxies  by  the  "red-cap"  porter. 

In  her  new  green  suit  with  hat  to  match, 
a  touch  of  scarlet  at  her  throat,  the  color  of 
the  wing  on  her  hat,  with  a  still  brighter 


Helping  the  Helpless 


scarlet  glowing  in  her  cheeks,  the  brown- 
haired  girl  made  a  very  attractive  picture. 

On  went  the  taxi,  through  crowded  busy 
streets,  down  Fifth  Avenue,  past  shops  and 
shoppers — the  girl's  heart  joyous  one  mo- 
ment with  the  excitement  of  it  all,  and  then 
again  heavy  with  fear  of  the  unknown. 

"I'll  soon  -.vrite  Aunt  Jennie  how  every- 
thing is  splendid.  I'm  sure  I'm  right  in 
coming.  I  wish  I  had  seen  him  once,  just 
once,  before " 

A  feeling  of  pride  braced  her  as  she  saw 
the  beautiful  shop  windows  and  thought, 
"I'll  be  one  of  these  New  Yorkers,  and  soon 
be  in  the  swim  of  it  all." 

Crossing  and  turning  at  several  streets  the 
taxi  stopped  at  last  on  East  I3th  Street. 

"This  can't  be  the  place — no  indeed,"  and 
Elvira  took  out  the  last  letter  she  had  re- 
ceived containing  the  full  address.  "Driver, 
are  you  sure  this  is  the  number  I  gave  you  ? 
There  must  be  some  mistake !"  and  her  mind 
flashed  back  to  the  past  descriptions. 


FIVE  SONS 

were  born,  in  this,  the  poorest  of  homes.  When  the  last  was  a 
few  days  old  the  father  complained  about  such  a  big  family. 
He  went  away — has  never  returned. 


A  TYPICAL  BOY  OF  THE  STREET 


An  Advertisement  39 

"Where  is  the  small  park?  Where  is  the 
'flat  with  nine  rooms'  with  'pleasant  out- 
look on  grass  and  old  trees'?" 

Helpless  and  fearful  she  settled  back  in 
the  taxi  loath  to  get  out. 

"Miss,  excuse  me,  but  you  seem  like  you 
didn't  know  New  York.  This  is  the  num- 
ber you  give  me;  and  mayhap  you  don't 
think  about  the  way  a  taxi  does  be  eatin' 
up  money — standin'  or  goin.'  It's  all  to  the 
good  for  me,  but  I  hate's  to  see  a  strange 
young  lady  git  cheated." 

When  the  taxi  with  its  friendly  driver 
had  disappeared  and  Elvira  was  left  on  the 
pavement  alone,  bag  in  hand,  her  heart 
sank  like  lead. 

"This  is  the  number.  This  is  the  street," 
she  said,  as  she  looked  the  house  over  from 
roof  to  cellar. 

In  the  basement  a  Chinaman  was  busily 
engaged  ironing — too  busy  to  even  glance 
up.  At  the  next  floor  in  one  of  the  win- 
dows appeared  the  sign  "Rooms  to  Let." 


40  Helping  the  Helpless 

The  front  steps  were  old  and  broken  and 
dirty.  A  man  opened  the  dingy  front  door, 
and  came  out,  which  gave  Elvira  a  glimpse 
of  the  dismal  hallway. 

"What  am  I  to  do—what  am  I  to  do!" 
Elvira  asked  herself,  and  then  the  cheering 
thought  came  to  her,  "Why  this  is  a  place, 
perhaps,  where  Mr.  Stemson  has  his  office; 
or  where  he  attends  to  some  business,  and 
expects  to  meet  me  here  and  then  we  can  go 
to  the  apartment,  or  to  the — church." 

This  thought  brought  new  courage  and 
the  girl  mounted  the  steps,  just  as  a  kindly- 
faced  woman  opened  the  door  to  come  out. 

"Does  Mr.  James  Stemson  have  an  office 
here?"  she  asked,  "I  mean — is  he  here 
now?"  and,  taking  the  letters  which  con- 
tained the  address  from  her  bag,  Elvira 
looked  inquiringly  into  the  face  of  the  wo- 
man, who,  in  turn,  was  looking  the  girl 
over  from  the  top  of  her  pretty  green  hat 
to  the  tip  of  her  new  shoes. 

"And  is  it  Misther  Sthemson  ye  be  want- 


An  Advertisement  41 

in*  Miss?  Yis — he's  shure  here — he  is — • 
took  a  room  three  days  back — sicond  floor 
— rear."  She  added  to  herself,  "I'm  won- 
derin'  phat  the  loikes  of  her  is  wantin'  now 
of  the  loikes  of  him — she  looks  a  dacent  little 
loidy."  "If  you  follow  me  up  I'll  show  ye 
his  room." 

This  landlady,  whose  heart  was  as  big  as 
her  capacious  body,  and  whose  long  exper- 
ience with  men  lodgers  and  their  ways  in 
the  great  city,  had  made  suspicious,  was 
very  willing  to  guide  this  strange  girl  up  the 
stairs  instead  of  sending  her  alone. 

With  a  loud  knock  at  the  door  with  her 
knuckles,  the  landlady  opened  it  saying,  "It's 
Misther  Sthemson  the  young  loidy  be  askin' 
fur." 

In  one  corner  of  the  room  by  the  win- 
dow, in  an  old  worn  easy  chair,  sat  a  slouchy, 
baldheaded  man  chewing  on  the  stub  of  a 
cigar.  He  was  dressed  in  a  cheap  plaid 
suit,  and  worn  russet  shoes.  A  collar  lay 
on  the  table  near  him,  and  his  shirt  was 


42  Helping  the  Helpless 

anything  but  fresh.  He  started  up  from  the 
chair,  but  dropped  back  as  his  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  the  pretty  girl,  seeming,  for  the 
moment,  dazed  by  the  attractive  picture  she 
made. 

"Um-um,  Mrs.  McCarthy,"  he  said, 
"Much  obliged — um,  um — this  is  my  little 
Daisy  come  to  me  from  the  far  away.  Come 
right  in,  my  bird,"  and  putting  out  his  foot 
drew  a  chair,  as  dilapidated  as  the  one  in 
which  he  sat,  toward  him  without  arising. 
"Come  in — come  right  in — you  are — you 
are  a  pretty  bunch — come  in." 

The  girl  stood  at  the  door  as  though 
turned  to  stone.  Mrs.  McCarthy  caught  the 
look  of  horror  on  her  face  and  quickly  de- 
cided it  was  her  duty  to  stay  close  by,  al- 
though the  man  kept  telling  her  he  would 
not  detain  her,  and  now  that  the  young  lady 
he  expected  had  arrived,  he  had  no  further 
need  of  the  landlady's  kind  services — would 
she  go  about  her  own  business? 

Mrs.  McCarthy  smiled  broadly  and  said  to 


An  Advertisement  43 

herself,  "Biddy  McCarthy  happens  to  know 
her  own  bisness  just  at  prisent,  and  that  is 
to  sthay  close  by  this  gurrl." 

Elvira,  in  a  voice  shaking  with  excite- 
ment, crossed  the  threshold  of  the  door  and 
said,  "This  can't  be — oh,  it  can't  be  Mr. 
James  Stemson !  Oh,  say  that  you  are  not 
— who  are  you?  Tell  me!" 

"Come  along  in,  my  Daisy,  and  let  us 
talk  things  over — come — don't  be  scared  of 
me — I'm  not  so  bad,  even  if  I  am  Jim  Stem- 
son."  He  arose  from  his  lounging  position 
and  came  toward  her.  "Come,  my  Daisy, 
come  in,"  putting  out  a  long  gaunt  arm  to 
embrace  her.  The  girl  stepped  back,  just 
escaping  it,  and  clutched  at  the  arm  of  the 
landlady  who  stood  close  behind  her. 

"Come  on,  my  love.  We  are  to  go  to  the 
man  who  will  marry  us  to-night.  You  don't 
find  me  as  handsome  as  you  expected,  do 
you?  Is  that  it?  Well,  you  look  mighty 
pretty  yourself,  and  dressed  to  kill — a  fine 
little  bird  you  are." 


44  Helping  the  Helpless 

The  man  stood  eagerly  gazing  at  her, 
ready  to  grasp  her,  but  Elvira,  holding 
tightly  to  the  landlady's  arm  broke  forth 
"I'll  never,  never  marry  you.  Don't  you 
dare  to  lay  your  hands  on  me — don't  you 
dare !  You  are  not  my  Mr.  Stemson  I  have 
had  letters  from — it's  impossible!  I  must 
find  my  Mr.  Stemson.  You  are  not  he. 

You  are — you  are "  "A  liar,"  said  the 

landlady  in  a  loud  whisper. 

"Go  easy — go  easy,  my  bird.  You  prom- 
ised to  marry  me — me — and  you're  going 
to  stay  here  with  me  to-night.  You're  in 
New  York.  I've  your  promise,  and  you've 
come  all  the  way  to  see  me.  I  didn't  bring 
you.  Now  take  things  as  you  find  them  and 
let's  get  married  right  away — quick.  Come 
on — be  a  good  sport !  I'm  a  bit  down  on  my 
luck  just  now — things  have  been  going  a 
little  bad  with  me.  But  we  can  hock  that 
new  bag  and  get  enough  for  a  wedding  sup- 
per, and  pay  the  preacher  too."  And  then, 
with  an  oath,  he  added,  "Mrs.  McCarthy, 


An  Advertisement  45 

will  you  get  out  of  here?  Can't  you  leave 
a  man  alone  with  his  sweetheart?"  and  he 
grabbed  the  door  with  one  hand  and  took 
hold  of  the  girl  with  the  other,  to  pull  her 
into  the  room.  With  a  scream  she  threw 
herself  upon  the  landlady  whose  great  strong 
arm  was  about  her. 

"This  is  a  divil's  trap,  ye  villin,"  said 
Mrs.  McCarthy  in  a  voice  that  had  in  it  the 
ring  of  power.  "I'll  be  afther  exposin*  ye, 
I  will — me  cousint's  husbandt  is  on  the  per- 
lice,  and  yer  name's  not  Sthemson — mebbe 
it's  one  of  yer  ould  names — onyway,  this 
game's  all  up  fer  ye — this  gurrl  sez  she 
won't  marry  ye,  and  she  shan't." 

Cursing  Mrs.  McCarthy,  the  girl,  and  his 
own  bad  luck,  the  man  slunk  back  in  his  cor- 
ner muttering  that  all  would  have  been  well 
if  the  girl  had  not  trusted  to  a  lying  old 
Irishwoman. 

Quickly  Mrs.  McCarthy  slammed  to  the 
door,  and  holding  the  frightened  girl  with 


46  Helping  the  Helpless 

one  arm,  led  her  up  the  stairs  to  her  own 
rooms. 

"We'll  be  havin*  a  cup  of  hot  tay  in  me 
own  little  place.  It'll  sure  warm  the 
cockles  of  your  heart!  You  need  have  no 
fear  now — ye  can  trust  Bridget  McCarthy, 
shure!" 

The  kind-hearted  woman  did  not  ask  any 
questions,  but  after  placing  the  trembling 
girl  in  a  comfortable  seat  and  slipping  off 
her  hat,  talked  on  in  cheering  tones,  telling 
how  she  lived  in  the  two  rooms  and  more 
than  paid  her  rent  by  taking  care  of  the 
house;  of  how  she  had  a  woman  two  days 
in  the  week  to  do  the  heavy  cleaning ;  of  how 
her  husband  Patrick,  worked  on  a  boat  on 
The  Sound,  and  was  gone  three  days  and 
home  three  days;  of  how  the  extra  day  of 
the  week  he  sometimes  had  to  be  in  Bridge- 
port and  sometimes  in  New  York. 

Somehow,  the  welcome,  the  hot  tea  and 
the  feeling  of  safety,  in  the  little  room  of  the 
strong  woman,  warmed  the  girl's  heart  into 


An  Advertisement  47 

confiding  her  story  to  Mrs.  McCarthy  and 
asking  her  advice. 

"You  poor  darlint,  now,  I'm  glad  I  was 
to  home  this  day.  I  had  been  thinkin'  of 
goin'  up  to  me  cousint's  for  a  bit  of  a  visit, 
but  I  was  here  and  could  save  ye,  Praise  the 
Lord,  from  that  ould  villin.  This  night 
me  man  is  here,  but  he's  lavin'  airly  the 
'morrow.  The  best  I  can  do  fer  ye  I'll  do. 
There's  not  an  empty  bed  in  all  this  place, 
and  onyway  I  wouldn't  trust  you  away  from 
me  this  night,  for  ye're  safe  with  Biddy 
McCarthy — I'll  be  contrivin'  somethin'." 

With  a  soap  box  at  her  feet,  and  an  old 
quilt  on  a  wooden  chair  to  soften  it,  Elvira 
was  put  into  the  small  room  of  the  Mc- 
Carthy home,  which  was  really  a  closet, 
where  pails  and  tubs  and  ice-chest  were 
kept. 

All  through  that  long  night  the  girl  sat 
listening  to  the  heavy  breathing  of  Patrick 
McCarthy  in  the  next  room,  thinking,  think- 
ing, praying,  wondering  what  she  was  to  do. 


48  Helping  the  Helpless 

In  the  small  hours  of  the  night  Mrs.  Mc- 
Carthy on  tiptoe  opened  the  door  a  crack 
and  whispered,  "How  are  ye  gettin'  on,  me 
dear  ?  Me  man  makes  a  f  oine  noise — I  hope 
it  doesn't  throuble  ye.  Sometoimes  it  do  be 
loike  the  band  on  Saint  Pathrick's  Day. 
Don't  be  scart — will  ye  ?  Ow,  that  ould  rat 
of  a  man!  That  ould  villin!  I'm  indade 
glad  I  was  home  this  day." 

"Phwat's  that,  Biddy,"  said  a  voice  from 
under  the  bed  covers,  in  the  next  room, 
"You  heard  a  rat?  Wait  'til  the  mornin' 
thin  catch  it;  set  yer  trap." 

The  next  day  Mr.  McCarthy  was  off  on 
his  three-day  job,  and  Elvira  was  cuddled 
into  his  side  of  the  bed,  where  she  was  told 
to  "lay  shtill  and  be  aisy  in  her  moind." 

Sleep  was  impossible,  but  as  she  rested 
and  prayed,  the  question  "What  am  I  to 
do?"  kept  saying  itself  over  and  over  again. 
Though  the  door  was  kept  locked,  she 
started  in  fear  at  every  sound  outside.  But 
Mrs.  McCarthy,  doing  her  cleaning  of  halls 


An  Advertisement  49 

and  stairs,  kept  one  ear  toward  the  room  of 
her  lodger. 

"I  can't  go  home ;  I  can't  stay  here,"  was 
the  constant  cry  in  the  girl's  heart.  "What 
will  I  do?  Oh,  supposing  Mrs.  McCarthy 
had  not  been  here!  God  has  helped  me — 
Oh,  He  will— but  how?" 

The  check  for  her  trunk  was  still  in  her 
possession,  and  a  few  dollars  in  her  purse. 
With  many  misgivings  Elvira  found  her 
way  to  the  head  office  of  the  railroad,  on 
Broadway,  and  inquired  whether  or  not 
they  would  take  her  few  dollars,  keep  her 
trunk  as  security,  and  let  her  have  a  through 
ticket  to  Millville.  If  so  she  would  surely 
return  the  money,  the  very  day  she  reached 
her  home. 

The  clerk  informed  her  that  this  arrange- 
ment was  impossible ;  that  the  railroad  must 
have  cash  for  the  ticket.  At  that  moment 
an  elderly  man  came  forward,  from  the  rear 
of  the  office,  and  asked  her  a  few  questions 
gently  and  kindly.  "We  cannot  grant  you 


50  Helping  the  Helpless 

this  favor,  I'm  sorry  to  say,  but  take  my 
card  to  a  lady — a  friend  of  mine — who  will 
perhaps  be  able  to  advise  you  what  to  do." 

The  lady  to  whom  this  railroad  official 
sent  Elvira  was  the  writer  of  this  little 
story. 

It  was  not  difficult  for  an  experienced  and 
sympathetic  woman  to  draw  from  the  girl 
the  real  facts  in  the  case,  although  at  first 
there  was  an  effort  on  her  part  to  invent  a 
little  tale  and  avoid  the  real  truth.  Having 
the  whole  story,  the  work  of  helping  the 
girl  could  be  taken  hold  of  with  loving  zeal. 

A  missionary  —  a  practical  Christian 
worker  in  the  crowded  tenements  —  was 
ready  for  service.  She  started  right  out 
with  Elvira  to  the  house  on  East  I3th 
Street,  where  Mrs.  McCarthy  was  anxiously 
awaiting  the  return  of  her  "darlint." 

The  three  then  went  together  to  Mr. 
Stemson's  room,  where  he  was  still  loung- 
ing, filling  the  smoke  from  his  pipe  with 
curses  on  his  bad  luck.  They  informed 


An  Advertisement  51 

him,  in  no  uncertain  tones,  that  his  supposed 
victim  was  in  the  hands  of  friends.  He 
threatened  and  swore  and  called  Elvira  the 
vilest  names  he  could  think  of.  He  would 
let  her  village  friends  know  her  real  char- 
acter. He  would  tell  them 

The  strain  of  the  journey,  the  fear  and 
excitement  and  lack  of  sleep  had  made  the 
girl  really  too  ill  to  travel.  Fortunate  was 
it  that  the  son  of  the  writer  was  a  physician, 
ready  to  give  any  help.  Rest,  comfort  and 
care  were  also  given  the  poor,  frightened 
girl. 

The  missionary  found  that  Mr.  Stemson's 
"place  of  business"  was  a  low  Bowery 
saloon,  where  he  washed  the  glasses  and 
cleaned  up  the  floor  when  he  was  not  selling 
liquor  over  the  counter. 

The  man  had  had  a  fair  education  in 
early  life  and  had  married  a  dressmaker; 
while  she  lived  and  supported  him  he  kept 
up  a  semblance  of  manhood,  but  after  her 
death,  through  liquor,  petty  gambling  and 


52  Helping  the  Helpless 

laziness,  he  easily  slid  down  the  hill  of  re- 
spectability, into  the  gutter  of  low  saloon 
life. 

After  a  visit  to  the  freight  offices,  two 
of  the  boxes  which  Elvira  had  sent  to  this 
man  were  finally  located  in  the  basement  of 
the  saloon,  and  had  not  been  opened.  With 
the  help  of  a  policeman  and  the  charge, 
"goods  held  under  false  pretences,"  they 
were  allowed  to  take  possession  of  them, 
and  they  were  afterward  shipped  back  to 
Millville. 

The  third  box,  filled  with  preserves  and 
jellies,  Stemson  had  sold  to  a  pawnbroker, 
whose  children  were  enjoying  one  of  the 
jars  when  Elvira  and  the  missionary  ar- 
rived at  the  shop.  The  barrel  of  sweet- 
potatoes  was  taken  from  the  freight  office 
and  given  away. 

Money  was  loaned,  a  through  ticket  with 
sleeper  secured  at  reduced  rates,  and  a 
grateful,  happy  and  wiser  girl  was  taken  to 


An  Advertisement  53 

the  station,  and  stayed  with  until  the  train 
started. 

Much  wiser  was  Elvira  than  when  she 
arrived  in  the  great  Metropolis.  Some  of 
the  lessons  she  had  learned  were,  that 
though  New  York  has  many  wicked  and  un- 
scrupulous people,  and  while  there  are  many 
traps  laid  for  unwary  feet,  yet  there  is  a 
host  of  men  and  women,  full  of  goodness 
and  generosity  and  Christian  love,  ready  to 
lend  a  hand  to  the  foolish  and  unfortunate. 

"Good-bye — may  God  bless  you,"  said  the 
girl  with  a  happy  face.  "Good-bye.  I 
never,  never  can  hope  to  repay  you  for  your 
goodness  to  me." 

Everyone  in  Millville  said  Elvira  Gray 
was  greatly  changed  by  her  trip  to  New 
York — she  seemed  so  sweet,  now,  and  kind 
and  happy ;  yet  they  thought  it  very  strange 
that  she  never  talked  about  her  journey,  or 
told  them  about  the  good  times  she  had  had 
in  the  great  city. 

A  few  months  later  there  was  a  wedding 


54  Helping  the  Helpless 

in  the  village  church  in  Millville,  and  Elvira 
Gray  became  Mrs.  John  Farnum.  When 
they  were  planning  their  honeymoon,  John 
said,  "Elvy,  where  shall  we  go  for  our 
pleasure  trip?" 

"Anywhere — anywhere,  John,"  was  the 
answer,  "anywhere,  except  to  New  York.  I 
never  want  to  see  that  city  again." 


Ill 


ALL  ROADS  LEAD  TO  NEW  YORK 

WOMAN,  and  little  girl  of 
about  twelve  years  of  age, 
came  into  my  room  at  the 
Bible  House,  some  years 
ago,  bringing  a  note  from 
a  railroad  official  asking  me  to  kindly  advise 
the  woman,  who  had  begged  for  a  reduced 
ticket  for  the  child. 

The  woman  and  girl  were  so  nearly  alike 
that  it  was  almost  amusing,  the  one  was  such 
a  miniature  copy  of  the  other, — the  same 
dark  eyes,  the  same  shaped  nose  and  mouth, 
and  even  their  voices  had  the  same  tone  and 
accent. 

"This  is  your  little  girl?"  I  said  to  the 
woman.  "No,"  she  replied,  shifting  her 
eyes  from  one  to  another,  "no,  she  is  no 

65 


56  Helping  the  Helpless 

relation  to  me;  I  picked  her  up  on  a  train 
as  I  was  coming  from  the  West,  she  was 
travelling  alone,  and  I  felt  sorry  for  her, — 
I  went  to  the  railroad  company  to  get  a 
ticket  for  her,  so  I  could  take  her  back,  to 
where  she  says  she  came  from;  I  feel  very 
sorry  for  her."  During  this  explanation 
the  child's  eyes  became  wet  and  her  face 
flushed,  as  she  clenched  her  little  hands  to- 
gether, but  said  nothing.  "Do  you  think 
you  could  have  forgotten?  Are  you  sure 
that  this  is  not  your  little  child?"  "Oh, 
yes,"  replied  the  woman,  bracing  up  to  the 
lie  she  had  told,  "I  never  saw  her  before 
until  on  the  train  nearly  to  New  York;  if 
I  had  the  money  I  would  buy  her  a  ticket 
myself,  but  I  haven't  enough." 

The  child  responded  to  my  kindness  as  I 
put  my  arm  around  her,  laying  her  head  for 
a  moment  against  my  shoulder,  as  she 
sobbed.  "You  see,"  said  the  woman,  "she 
is  a  dear  little  thing  and  I  want  to  take  her 
back  to  where,  she  says,  her  home  is." 


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All  my  questioning  brought  out  only  the 
statement  that  the  child  was  an  utter 
stranger,  made  each  time  in  a  more  and  more 
positive  tone. 

Then,  at  last  I  thanked  the  woman  for  her 
loving  interest  in  the  little  waif,  and  told 
her  that  as  she  was  no  relation,  and  had  no 
claim  upon  her,  I  would  help,  and  the  child 
would  be  placed  in  good  care  until  her 
family  could  be  found,  and  then  I  would 
see  that  she  was  sent  to  them. 

The  woman's  face  flushed,  her  eyes  roved 
from  one  to  another,  she  started  to  speak, 
and  after  a  moment's  silence  said,  "If  I  had 
the  money  I'd  stay  near  by  to  see  what  you 
do  with  her,  at  least  a  few  days.  I  got  very 
interested  in  her  seeing  her  on  a  train 
alone." 

The  Home  for  Homeless  Girls  welcomed 
Dora,  and  a  place  near  by  was  secured  for 
the  woman.  Two  days  later,  as  I  had  ex- 
pected, the  woman  came  to  herself,  broke 
down,  and  with  tears  and  sobs  said,  "O,  I 


58  Helping  the  Helpless 

lied,  I  have  lied;  I  have  committed  the  un- 
pardonable sin;  I  have  disowned  my  own 
child;  I'm  going  away  where  she  can't  see 
me.  I  am  a  sinner;  I  have  lied — lied;  I 
know  you  will  be  good  to  her,  and  by  and 
by  I'll  send  money  and  have  her  come  to 
me." 

Everything  was  done  at  the  Home  to 
make  Dora  happy,  but  at  night  she  would 
sob  herself  to  sleep,  saying  over  and  over, 
"Oh,  my  mother  told  a  lie,  my  mother  said 
I  was  not  her  little  girl — that  awful  lie." 
The  child  grew  pale  and  sick,  under  the 
strain,  notwithstanding  the  loving  home  life 
around  her.  After  a  few  weeks  we  received 
a  letter  from  the  mother,  from  Cleveland, 
saying  she  had  a  good  position  working  out 
by  the  day,  and  had  a  little  home  of  two 
rooms,  and  would  like  to  have  the  child 
sent  on  to  her — she  would  return  us  the 
money,  if  we  would  advance  it.  Every  ef- 
fort was  made  to  find  out  more  about  the 
mother.  From  all  reports  she  was  indus- 


All  Roads  Lead  to  New  York      59 

trious  and  an  earnest  churchgoer,  de- 
voted to  a  small  mission,  where  she  was 
very  active.  Having  friends  in  Cleveland, 
upon  whom  to  rely  in  case  of  need,  we 
decided  that  it  was  best  to  let  the  little 
girl  go  to  her  mother,  and  share  the 
mother's  life.  We  fitted  her  out  with  com- 
fortable clothing,  and  away  she  went  under 
the  care  of  a  travelling  friend,  as  happy 
as  a  child  can  be.  Her  last  word  as  she 
left  us  was,  "my  mother  does  love  me  I 
know;  she  is  sorry  for  that  awful  lie." 

Before  leaving  me  I  sewed  into  her 
pocket  a  small  stamped  envelope  addressed 
to  myself,  and  said  to  her:  "Dora,  your 
mother  does  love  you,  and  I  hope  you  are 
going  to  have  very  good  times  with  her, 
but  if  any  kind  of  trouble  comes,  and  you 
need  a  friend,  send  this  little  envelope 
back  to  me,  and  I  will  understand  and  try 
to  help  you.  Two  months  had  passed  when 
I  received  in  the  mail  my  envelope,  and 
inside  was  a  little  note  from  a  neighbor, 


60  Helping  the  Helpless 

a  woman  who  lodged  in  the  same  house 
with  Dora  and  her  mother. 

"For  God's  sake,  lady,  get  this  child  away 
from  here;  she  is  getting  killed."  My 
friend  in  Cleveland  found  the  home,  and 
the  child  and  her  mother ;  everything  seemed 
all  right.  It  was  put  to  the  mother  that 
Dora  was  looking  a  little  pale,  and  wouldn't 
the  mother  like  her  to  take  a  trip  to  New 
York,  with  my  friend,  for  her  health's  sake. 
The  mother's  consent  was  gained  provided 
I  would  promise  to  have  her  taught  French. 

After  reaching  the  station  the  mother 
suddenly  changed  her  mind,  and  just  as  my 
friend  got  the  child  inside  the  gates  and 
was  entering  the  car,  the  mother,  with  a 
scream,  tried  to  follow,  and  get  on  the  train 
without  a  ticket,  but  was  pushed  back  just 
as  it  started. 

Little  Dora  reached  New  York  as  pitiful 
a  little  girl  as  anyone  would  want  to  see; 
she  was  thin,  haggard  and  sad.  Her  story 
was  this:— Her  mother  was  a  missionary 


All  Roads  Lead  to  New  York      61 

worker  believing  the  end  of  the  world  was 
close  at  hand.  She  wanted  her  child  to 
follow  in  her  footsteps,  and  be  ready.  She 
took  her  to  meetings  every  night,  and 
brought  her  home  to  her  rooms,  and  then 
soaked  the  girl's  feet  in  cold  water  above 
the  knees,  so  as  to  extract  the  evil  from 
her  nature.  The  mother  fed  her  with 
ashes,  for  the  purification  of  her  soul, 
and  when  the  child  refused  she  would 
sharpen  the  great  butcher  knife  she  had, 
and  draw  the  back  of  the  knife  across 
her  neck,  telling  her  that  God  had  told  her 
to  punish  her,  and  that  she  would  put  the 
sharp  edge  on  if  she  said  a  word. 

Besides  being  thin  and  wretched,  Dora 
came  back  with  a  hard  cough,  which  we 
found  immediately  was  whooping-cough. 
The  Home  for  Homeless  Girls,  of  course, 
could  not  take  her  in.  There  was  no  in- 
stitution or  suitable  place  in  the  great  city 
for  her  under  the  circumstances,  but,  for- 
tunately, in  my  own  home  there  was  no  one 


62  Helping  the  Helpless 

who  would  be  endangered,  so  that  Dora 
came  to  me,  and  for  over  a  year,  was  my 
own  devoted,  happy  child.  Measles  fol- 
lowed the  whooping-cough,  after  which  she 
went  to  public  school. 

In  the  meantime,  by  correspondence,  we 
began  a  search  for  her  relatives,  and  dis- 
covered that  there  was  an  uncle  by  mar- 
riage, in  the  far  West,  who  had  been 
alienated  from  Dora's  mother  for  years. 
At  last  there  was  a  welcome  for  the  child 
with  her  own  people. 

A  little  girl  about  her  size,  the  daughter 
of  one  of  the  ladies  interested  in  our  work, 
passed  on  to  the  Heavenly  Home,  and  the 
clothing  she  no  longer  needed  just  fitted 
our  waif.  Well  clothed,  with  her  pretty 
travelling  suit  and  coat,  Dora,  who  was 
now  a  bright,  cheery  girl,  was  taken  by 
the  Children's  Aid  Society,  to  the  West. 

There,  in  the  home  of  her  uncle,  she 
learned  to  play  the  little  organ,  and  was  a 
very  happy  and  useful  girl. 


All  Roads  Lead  to  New  York      63 

Years  after,  Dora  married,  and  she  and 
her  husband  went  still  farther  west  into 
Oklahoma,  took  up  a  claim  of  unoccupied 
land,  and  in  a  little  rough  log  cabin  lived 
until  they  owned  the  land.  In  this  log  cabin 
she  gathered  her  nearest  neighbors  for  a 
Sunday  service,  and  with  the  aid  of  her 
little  organ  made  it  very  attractive.  The 
young  man,  to  whom  Dora  gave  her  heart, 
did  not  prove  as  true  and  steadfast  as  she 
could  hope,  and  finally  deserted  her;  but 
Dora's  Christian  character  has  stood  every 
test.  She  is  now  filling  a  good  position  in 
the  far  Southwest,  yet  ever  longing  to  come 
once  more  to  New  York. 


IV 
MY  SANCTUM 

HEN  the  City  Mission 
offices  were  moved  from 
the  old  Bible  House  to 
the  new  and  commodious 
building  of  the  United 
Charities,  furnished  by  the  generosity  of 
Mr.  John  S.  Kennedy,  a  very  cosy,  com- 
fortable room  was  fitted  up  for  the  Super- 
intendent of  the  Woman's  Branch.  Be- 
side the  regular  furnishings  of  desk,  chair, 
etc.,  there  was  a  comfortable  rocker,  willow 
lounge,  and  ornaments  on  the  mantelpiece, 
which  gave  it  a  very  homelike  atmosphere. 
Into  this  sanctum  came,  from  day  to  day, 
very  many  and  very  varied  people,  with  all 
kinds  of  trouble. 

A  young  man,  a  stranger  in  New  York, 
had  touched  the  work  of  our  society,  and, 

64 


My  Sanctum  65 

in  his  longing  for  companionship  other 
than  that  of  the  cheap  boarding  house 
where  he  lived,  came  in  at  his  noon  hour, 
to  ask  me  how  he  could  get  acquainted  with 
some  nice  girls.  His  home  circle,  in  the 
small  town  where  he  had  lived,  had  been 
very  dear  to  him,  with  cousins  and  aunts 
and  friendly  young  people,  but  New  York 
was  a  wilderness,  and  he  felt  utterly  for- 
lorn. 

At  another  time  a  gentleman  called  who 
wished  the  door  quite  closed  during  his  in- 
terview, and  then  confidentially  told  me  of 
the  death  of  his  very  lovely  and  educated 
wife  and  the  utter  loneliness  which  had 
followed.  He  could  not  find  another  help- 
mate in  his  own  country  parish,  and  needed 
a  woman  as  nearly  like  his  wife  as  possible, 
who  could  help  him  with  church  work,  and 
read  over  his  sermons,  and  make  practical 
suggestions.  Would  I  think  over  his  need, 
and  introduce  him  to  some  attractive  lady 
missionary  of  the  Woman's  Branch? 


66  Helping  the  Helpless 

One  visitor  was  a  young  man  from  a  far 
distant  mission  station  who  had  gone  out 
alone,  was  home  on  his  furlough,  but  did 
not  want  to  return  without  a  helpmate.  He 
found  all  the  girls  he  used  to  know  and 
like,  married  and,  as  he  said,  "the  younger 
girls  don't  seem  to  care  for  much  beside 
tango,  and  we  don't  have  that  kind  out 
where  I  live."  He  needed  a  little  advice 
about  a  certain  young  lady  he  had  heard  I 
knew  very  well.  Suffice  to  say  he  returned 
to  his  mission  field  with  a  very  suitable  and 
charming  wife. 

Another  caller  was  a  woman  so  decorated 
with  chains  and  beads  and  rings  and  brace- 
lets, that  it  was  difficult  to  know  whether 
she  was  a  Hottentot  or  an  American.  She 
had  a  business  venture  which  would  make 
any  one  investing  largely  in  it  very  rich 
indeed — the  returns  would  be  sure  and  large 
and  speedy.  I  was  given  the  opportunity 
of  thus  becoming  a  millionaire  on  the  condi- 
tion that  I  give  her  the  names  of  rich  women 


My  Sanctum  67 

who  knew  me,  and  a  letter  to  each  endors- 
ing the  scheme,  and  gaining  for  her  en- 
trance to  their  homes  for  private  interviews. 
It  is  needless  to  say  that  neither  to  her  nor 
to  any  other  person,  for  any  cause  whatever, 
did  I  give  names  or  letters  of  this  kind. 

One  morning  a  sad- faced  young  woman 
in  black  came  in,  whose  story  ran  like  this: 
Her  husband  was  dying  with  tuberculosis; 
his  people  were  paying  for  him  to  have  the 
care  he  needed  in  a  sanitarium,  but  it  was 
an  incurable  case.  She  had  been  living  with 
her  father,  but  now  he  had  died,  and  she 
must  find  work  to  support  herself  and  her 
little  two-year-old  girl.  Her  husband's 
people  were  not  able  to  help  her,  and  she 
did  not  know  which  way  to  turn.  The 
blue  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  told  of 
how  little  strength  she  had  for  the  battle 
of  labor  outside  of  home,  and  how  she  had 
prayed  for  courage.  "Oh,  I  must  find 
work,"  she  said,  "and  I  must  find  work 
where  I  can  keep  my  little  girl  with  me. 


68  Helping  the  Helpless 

Don't  tell  me  that  that  will  be  impossible." 
A  caller  in  the  main  office  outside  was 
demanding  my  attention,  and  telling  her 
to  make  herself  comfortable  in  the  rocking 
chair,  until  we  could  see  what  could  be 
done,  what  plan  could  be  devised  to  help 
her  to  help  herself,  I  went  out  to  meet  a 
young  man,  strong,  alert,  earnest,  Avho  said, 
"You  perhaps  don't  remember  me,  Mrs. 
Bainbridge,  but  I  know  you,  and  I  have 
come  because  I  think  you  can  help  me.  You 
know  my  two  little  girls  have  no  mother; 
poor  Mary  died  a  year  ago.  I  have  tried 
to  keep  things  together  by  hiring  different 
kinds  of  women  to  help,  but  it's  no  go. 
The  other  day  I  went  home  from  my  job 
and  found  things  just  worse  than  crooked. 
Now,  I  can't  stop  my  work  to  stay  home, 
and  I've  got  to  find  somebody  who  will  be 
good  to  my  children.  I  can  hire  the  scrub- 
bing and  washing;  I  can't  afford  two  or 
three  servants,  but  I  have  a  good  little  home 
on  Long  Island,  partly  paid  for.  I  want 


My  Sanctum  69 

somebody  that'll  keep  my  home  and  be  good 
to  my  kiddies." 

"Will  you  take  a  very  nice  little  woman, 
with  her  two-year-old  child?  She  cannot 
do  the  heavy  washing  and  scrubbing,  but 
she  can  cook,  and  keep  your  home,  and  I 
am  sure  would  be  very  kind  to  your  little 
ones." 

He  stopped  a  moment  to  think,  then  gave 
his  leg  a  vigorous  slap,  saying,  "By  George, 
that's  the  thing  exactly.  Where  can  I  find 
her?" 

"She  is  here,"  I  replied,  "waiting  for 
you." 

A  little  later  I  looked  out  of  the  window, 
and  watched  the  two  walking  off  together. 

Perhaps  it  was  two  or  three  years  after- 
ward that  the  same  young  man  came  into 
the  office  and  greeted  me  most  cordially. 

"I  had  to  come,"  he  said,  "to  thank  you 
for  giving  to  my  children  and  to  my  home 
one  of  the  best  little  women  in  all  this  big 


70  Helping  the  Helpless 

world.  She's  my  wife  now,  and  here's  a 
photograph  I  brought  to  show  you." 

It  was  a  family  group. 

"Here,"  he  said,  "are  my  two  children 
and  me;  this  is  her  child  and  here  she  is; 
and  this  little  boy  in  her  lap — fine  little  fel- 
low, isn't  he? — is  ours." 

Into  this  Sanctum  came  nurse  or  mis- 
sionary to  talk  over  and  get  light  on  the 
many  problems  of  drink  and  poverty  and 
sickness  encountered  from  day  to  day. 

How  much  to  help,  what  agencies  to  use, 
how  best  to  make  those  helped  learn  thereby 
to  help  themselves, — all  these  and  many 
other  questions  had  to  be  talked  over.  Ever 
bearing  in  mind,  in  all  our  work,  that  it  was 
not  a  ministry  to  bodies  alone,  with  that 
help  given,  we  endeavored  to  reach  minds 
and  souls,  and  to  build  up  Christian  char- 
acter. 


A  TENEMENT  DAISY 


ITS  of  plaster  were  broken 
off  from  the  dirty  walls, 
the  wood-work  was  dingy 
and  the  floor  even  worse, 
in  a  room  where  a 
woman,  bending  over  a  sewing-machine,  sat 
close  to  an  unwashed  window  which  looked 
out  upon  a  court  filled  with  clothes-lines, 
overflowing  garbage  barrels  and  other 
refuse.  Her  dress  was  faded  and  ragged 
and  her  hair  in  disorder,  yet,  notwithstand- 
ing this,  real  beauty  of  form  and  features 
could  readily  be  seen,  and  it  was  not  diffi- 
cult to  believe  that  in  her  younger  days  the 
woman  had  served  as  an  artists's  model. 

On  the  floor  in  the  centre  of  the  room 
sat  a  man  and  his  two-year-old  boy  playing 
together  with  straws  and  tiny  sticks.     In  a 
71 


72  Helping  the  Helpless 

dark  corner  a  little  girl  was  doubled  up  in 
an  old,  worn-out,  broken-down  rocking- 
chair,  minus  a  rocker,  trying  to  shield  her 
inflamed  eyes  from  even  the  dim  light.  The 
noise  of  the  rattling  old  sewing-machine 
drowned  the  sound  of  the  knock,  and  as 
the  missionary  caller  stepped  into  the  room 
the  man  gave  a  start,  looked  up  curiously 
for  an  instant,  then  went  on  playing  with 
the  child. 

The  sewing-machine  was  slowed  up  and, 
after  a  greeting  from  her  caller,  the  woman 
said  in  a  low  voice,  pointing  to  her  husband 
and  touching  her  head  in  a  significant  way: 
"He's  bad  to-day — was  in  the  sun  yester- 
day awhile.  Things  goes  hard  with  me. 
My  cough  ain't  no  better, — keeps  me  awake 
and  makes  him  mad.  Mary  don't  seem  to 
never  get  over  the  measles.  He  says  she's 
goin'  to  get  blind." 

An  opportunity  to  go  with  a  special 
Fresh  Air  party,  where  the  girl  would  be 
well  looked  after  and  have  all  the  milk  and 


w 

K 

>H 

2 


3      3 

o    o 


CJ        C    C 
W       " 


A  Tenement  Daisy  73 

eggs  she  wanted,  with  fresh  air  and  green 
grass  and  farm  life,  was  pictured  by  the 
visitor.  "Apples,  big  trees,  tiny  chicks," 
muttered  the  girl  in  the  dark  corner,  re- 
peating some  of  the  words  she  heard, — "Oh, 
I'd  love  it!" 

The  difficulty  of  proper  clothes  and  shoes 
was  to  be  met,  and  the  visitor  would  come 
in  two  days  and  take  little  Mary  to  the 
train. 

At  the  appointed  hour  the  missionary 
knocked  again  at  the  tenement  door.  No 
rumble  of  sewing-machine  this  time,  but 
the  mother,  in  a  gruff  voice  called  out: 
"Who's  there?  Come  in!"  The  man  was 
asleep  in  an  inner  room, — or  it  might  better 
be  called  a  closet, — the  little  girl  was  again 
huddled  up  in  the  same  old  chair,  stifling 
her  sobs. 

"I've  made  up  my  mind  not  to  let  her 
go.  It's  all  nonsense,  anyway.  I  thought 
you'd  try  to  make  me,  for  the  child  won't 
stop  her  snivelling,  so  I  just  put  them  new 


74  Helping  the  Helpless 

things  where  'twould  put  an  end  to  it."  In 
a  tub  of  dirty  water  were  to  be  seen  the 
new  gingham  dress,  and  the  new  stockings 
and  shoes  which  the  missionary  had  left  for 
the  girl  the  day  before. 

An  empty  bottle  and  a  breath  laden  with 
gin  explained  the  change  of  plan.  But 
after  some  moments  of  plain  speaking,  in 
a  most  forcible  manner,  with  the  accom- 
paniment of  pitiful  sobbing  from  the  dark 
corner,  the  mother's  heart  got  the  better  of 
her  drunken  brain  and  it  was  decided  that 
"next  time"  Mary  might  go. 

Experience  is  a  good  teacher,  and  when 
that  next  Fresh  Air  party  was  selected,  the 
missionary  was  up  with  the  sun-rising,  and 
carrying  the  clothes  with  her,  washed  and 
dressed  little  Mary  herself.  Dark  glasses 
over  the  still  weak  eyes  were  a  real  com- 
fort, and  little  Mary  was  at  the  station,  by 
eight  o'clock,  as  happy  a  child  as  any  in 
the  party. 

There  was  a  loving  w.elcome  at  the  end 


A  Tenement  Daisy  75 

of  the  journey,  in  an  ideal  old  farmhouse, 
where 

"The  trees  fold  their  green  arms  about  it, 

Great  trees  a  century  old, 
And  the  winds  go  chanting  through  them, 
While  the  sunbeams  drop  their  gold." 

Here  the  little  girl  found  more  than  care 
and  good  food.  Her  mind  and  soul  ex- 
panded to  the  beauty  surrounding  her. 

A  lily,  pure  and  beautiful,  will  grow  in 
darkest  mud.  The  most  fragrant  blossoms 
of  early  spring  are  found  hidden  under  the 
fallen  leaves  and  mossy  carpet  of  the 
woods,  and  many  a  human  flower  when 
taken  from  the  wretched  conditions  of  tene- 
ment life  will  grow  and  mature  into  beauty 
and  fragrance  of  life. 

Before  the  time  for  Mary's  return,  the 
farmer  wrote: 

"Dear  Lady: 

"Will  you  please  try  to  get  our  little  Mary's 
people  to  allow  her  to  stay  longer.  She  is  getting 
stronger  and  her  eyes  are  much  improved.  We 
all  love  her.  Even  the  dog  and  the  chickens  will 
mis?  her,  We  must  keep  her." 


76  Helping  the  Helpless 

Meantime,  things  were  happening  in  the 
tenement  house  which  Mary  called  home. 
The  baby  brother  suddenly  sickened  and 
died.  The  father,  who  could  not  bear  the 
sunlight  and  had  been  obliged  to  take  his 
outings  by  night,  was  stricken  with  grief. 
He  was  frank  in  saying,  "My  boy  was 
wuth  while,  but  girls  ain't  no  good.  Let 
the  child  stay.  She  ain't  no  use  anyway." 

The  sunstroke,  which  the  man  said  he  had 
had  when  working  on  a  high  building,  kept 
him  at  home  during  the  daytime,  but  at 
night  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  going 
out  for  the  air  and  to  pick  up  an  odd  job. 
He  evidently  picked  up  something  beside 
the  odd  jobs,  and  this  something  he  tucked 
away  in  a  high  cupboard  of  the  dark  closet, 
— bright  things,  bracelets,  watches  and 
chains.  No  one  ever  saw  these  in  the  day- 
time. 

One  winter's  night,  the  year  before 
Mary's  trip  to  the  country,  when  her  father 
was  handling  a  glittering  piece,  Mary  woke 


A  Tenement  Daisy  77 

up  and  asked  him  to  let  her  see  it.  The 
child  never  asked  again,  for  the  reply  was 
that  if  she  ever  told  anybody  or  asked  any 
questions  he  would  take  the  hatchet, — 
which  he  grabbed  and  brandished  over  her, 
— and  cut  her  head  open  and  chop  out  her 
tongue.  His  fiery  eyes  and  ugly  voice  made 
the  threat  one  never  to  be  forgotten  by  the 
child. 

After  the  death  of  the  little  boy,  while 
Mary  was  still  at  the  farm,  in  an  unwise 
moment  the  father  confided  to  his  janitor 
that  he  had  found  in  an  alley-way  a  good 
watch,  and  gave  it  to  him  in  return  for 
some  special  privileges.  Not  long  after  this 
a  prying  policeman  visited  the  tenement  and 
asked  some  pointed  questions  of  Mary's 
mother  about  the  watch  and  the  man's 
business.  The  father,  who  was  hiding  not 
only  from  the  sunlight  but  from  visitors 
like  the  blue-coated  policemen,  took  the  first 
chance  to  slip  out  the  back  way  and  dis- 
appear. 


78  Helping  the  Helpless 

Later  a  scrawly,  unsigned  postal  was  re- 
ceived by  Mary's  mother.  Soon  after  she 
turned  over  the  key  of  her  room  to  the 
agent  of  the  building,  and  went  away, — 
where,  no  one  knew.  The  other  tenants 
were  all  too  busy  and  too  tired  in  their  own 
struggle  to  live  to  give  more  than  a  passing 
thought  to  the  disappearance  of  their 
neighbors.  The  mission  nurse  in  her  work 
found  the  rooms  empty.  It  was  just  the 
time  for  Mary's  return.  Was  the  child  on 
the  train?  What  could  be  done  to  keep 
Mary  from  returning  to  the  desolate  place. 
A  telegram  to  the  farmer  who  had  taken 
the  girl  and  asked  to  keep  her,  reached  the 
farm  just  as  Mary  was  bidding  the  dear 
people  good-bye.  It  was  a  very  happy  girl 
who  unpacked  her  little  bundle  and  stayed 
on. 

Nothing  was  really  known  of  the  child's 
mother  after  that  sudden  departure.  The 
woman's  cough  and  her  drinking  had  been 
growing  from  bad  to  worse,  so  it  is  prob- 


A  Tenement  Daisy  79 

able  that  in  some  other  city  than  New  York 
she  has  rilled  a  pauper's  grave. 

Is  it  too  great  a  stretch  of  the  imagina- 
tion to  think  that  this  man,  who  disliked 
the  sunshine  and  took  his  outings  in  the 
darkness  of  the  night,  has  been  spending 
his  time  in  some  old  greystone  building  with 
iron  bars  to  shut  out  the  light  and  to  shut 
him  into  the  dark? 

Mary  gradually  became  a  loving  member 
of  the  farm  life,  and  fitted  in  as  though  it 
had  always  been  her  home.  At  first  she 
talked  little,  but  often  chattered  in  a  low 
voice  to  the  chickens  and  the  flowers,  which 
were  her  companions.  The  little  girl  would 
nestle  down  among  the  daisies,  silently 
watching  the  fleecy  clouds  sail  by,  or  sit  for 
hours  weaving  daisy  chains  for  her  neck 
and  hair. 

"Where  is  my  little  girl?"  called  out  the 
farmer  to  the  child  almost  hidden  in  the 
grass,  her  head  crowned  with  daisies. 
"Won't  our  little  Queen  of  the  Daisies  come 


80  Helping  the  Helpless 

now  for  some  dinner?"  And  so  smilingly 
did  she  run  to  take  his  hand  that  her  name 
after  that  was  "Daisy."  Later,  at  school 
and  church  and  in  the  village,  no  one  knew 
her  by  any  other  name.  The  whole  of  her 
own  old  name  slipped  out  of  mind.  Miss 
Daisy  grew  up  as  a  daughter, — a  capable, 
lovely  young  woman. 

To-day,  in  a  position  of  trust  and  large 
influence,  as  a  well-educated  Christian 
woman,  she  has  been  able  to  return  to  her 
foster-parents  in  their  times  of  trouble  real 
comfort  and  help.  In  prosperity  or  ad- 
versity, and  now  in  older  years,  it  is  Daisy 
they  love  and  lean  upon. 


VI 


A  COMPANION 

RS.  BROWN  was  con- 
valescent. The  skill  of 
the  surgeon  had  resulted 
favorably.  There  had 
been  trained  nurses  and 
physicians  and  now  she  was  getting  better, 
but  was  still  very  nervous  and  not  at  all 
strong. 

"What  I  want,"  she  said  to  her  doctor 
one  day,  "is  not  to  see  a  nurse's  uniform — 
it  reminds  me  too  forcibly  of  ether,  the 
instruments,  and  the  pain.  I  believe  I 
could  get  well  quicker  if  I  had  a  bright, 
pretty  young  woman  to  talk  to  me  and  read 
to  me  and  thus  make  me  forget  my  illness." 
A  relative  of  Mrs.  Brown  had  a  friend 
who  knew  of  a  girl  who,  she  thought,  might 
fit  this  place.  All  she  knew  about  her  was 

81 


82  Helping  tlie  Helpless 

that  she  was  ladylike  and  refined,  and  had 
been  very  good  to  her  mother  who  had  been 
sick  for  some  time  before  her  death.  The 
young  woman  wanted  a  position,  for  her 
father  had  quickly  laid  aside  his  mourning 
and  married  a  young  girl  who  wanted  the 
whole  house  to  herself. 

Soon  after  this,  the  motherless  girl  was 
installe4  in  the  comfortable  home  of  Mrs. 
Brown.  She  gave  the  tonic  and  the  medi- 
cine, read  aloud,  arranged  the  flowers,  and 
sometimes  sang  little  old-fashioned  airs, 
when  the  invalid  was  nervous.  Indeed, 
Laura  was  like  a  daughter  instead  of  an 
employee  in  the  home. 

After  many  months  of  this  work,  even 
in  the  delightful  surroundings  of  this  ele- 
gant home,  Laura  grew  restless  and  chafed 
at  the  monotony  of  her  life.  "There  is  no 
future — no  outlook  in  this  kind  of  a  posi- 
tion, and  it  is  now  that  I  must  obtain 
training  for  larger  things,"  she  thought. 

Instead  of  confiding  in  Mrs.  Brown,  who 


A  Companion  83 

was  more  than  an  employer,  Laura  care- 
fully studied  the  advertisements  in  the 
papers  and  answered  one  which  she  felt  was 
the  very  gateway  to  fortune.  A  New  York 
man  offered  training  and  salary  to  good- 
looking  girls  of  cultured  manners  and  some 
knowledge  of  music. 

Such  a  vision  of  a  splendid  future  arose 
before  the  girl  that  she  answered  this  ad- 
vertisement and  was  accepted  before  Mrs. 
Brown  had  been  told.  "I  wish  you  could 
have  trusted  me,  Laura,"  she  said.  "I  feel 
like  a  mother  to  you.  When  I  am  strong 
again  I  will  gladly  help  you  to  some  training 
in  music.  I  appreciate  your  humdrum  life 
here  in  this  small  town,  and  being  with 
a  complaining  old  lady.  You  have  been 
good  to  me.  I  hope  you  will  not  go,  Laura 
— and  surely  do  not  go  alone  to  meet  an 
utter  stranger." 

But  the  girl  felt  that  she  had  given  her 
word,  and  anyway,  it  was  too  fine  an  op- 
portunity to  miss,  and  the  indefinite  promise 


84  Helping  the  Helpless 

of  Mrs.  Brown  reminded  her  of  the  old 
saying,  "A  bird  in  the  hand  is  worth  two 
in  the  bush." 

The  gentleman  at  the  head  of  the  Musical 
Bureau  had  very  kindly  agreed  to  meet  her 
at  the  station,  and  the  girl  was  instructed 
to  tie  a  handkerchief  around  her  right  arm, 
so  that  she  might  be  easily  identified  in  the 
crowd.  So  Laura  went  on  to  New  York 
from  Ohio,  and  her  correspondent  met  her 
as  he  promised.  He  was  a  fine-looking, 
well-groomed,  well-dressed,  person  and 
talked  pleasantly  with  her  as  they  met.  He 
called  a  cab  for  her,  suggested  that  she 
hand  him  her  check,  and  said  he  would 
gladly  relieve  her  of  all  trouble  regarding 
her  baggage. 

As  they  rode  along  he  told  her  that  he 
would  have  her  voice  tried  in  a  day  or  two, 
but  in  the  meantime  she  must  rest  from  her 
long  journey,  and  he  would  take  her  to  a 
good  boarding  house,  where  she  would  be 
very  comfortable.  On  arrival  at  the  place 


A  Companion  85 

designated,  they  found  that  the  lady  of  the 
house  was  out,  but  he  showed  Laura  to  a 
room  which  she  could  occupy  until  the  land- 
lady's return.  As  he  had  important  business 
which  would  keep  him  until  evening,  he 
would  go  and  she  could  make  herself  known 
to  the  family,  and  later  he  would  explain 
the  kind  of  position,  the  training  needed 
for  it,  and  the  salary  she  might  expect. 

As  the  gentleman  was  about  to  leave, 
however,  he  suggested  that  it  might  be  wise 
for  her  to  allow  him  to  put  any  money  she 
had  with  her  into  the  safe.  Servants  could 
not  be  trusted  always,  especially  in  New 
York,  as  she  had  doubtless  heard,  and  there 
were  many  pickpockets  and  sneak  thieves  in 
the  great  city.  Laura  thanked  him  as  he 
took  her  roll  of  bills  to  put  in  a  secure  place, 
and  bowed  himself  most  politely  out  of  the 
room. 

In  the  elegant  room  with  its  long  mirror, 
lace  curtains  and  fine  furniture,  Laura  sat 
down  in  an  easy  chair  to  rest.  Feeling 


86  Helping  the  Helpless 

very  much  alone,  and  as  she  afterward  said, 
with  a  strange  fear  clutching  at  her  heart, 
she  opened  her  traveling  bag,  took  from  it 
her  tiny  pocket  testament,  and  turned  for 
comfort  to  some  of  the  sweet  old  verses 
about  God's  care  for  those  who  trust  in 
Him. 

A  cleaning  woman  was  scrubbing  the 
marble  floor  in  the  hall,  and  because  of  her 
great  loneliness  and  longing  for  human 
companionship,  Laura  opened  the  door  a 
little  and  left  it  so.  The  woman  on  her 
knees  with  her  cloth  and  her  pail  of  suds 
stopped  now  and  then  to  look  in  at  the  girl 
as  she  sat  there  reading  the  little  book. 
Finally,  the  woman  with  hesitation  beck- 
oned the  girl  to  come  nearer  the  door,  and 
said  to  her  in  a  whisper: 

"Do  you  know  what  kind  of  a  house 
you're  in?  I'm  a  decent  woman — I  have 
to  earn  my  livin' — I  comes  here  to  clean 
twice  every  week.  They  thinks  I  don't 
know,  but  this  is  one  of  the  devil's  own 


A  Companion  87 

houses.  I'm  sure  you  won't  tell  on  me — 
but  if  you're  what  I  thinks  you  are  you'll 
git  out  while  you  can  git  out.  The  missus 
has  gone  to  the  the-a-tre,  the  door  is  well 
locked,  but  I'll  open  it  prentendin'  I'm 
cleanin'  the  marble  beside  it,  and  you  can 
git  out.  You'd  better  be  lively  for  some 
of  'em  '11  be  back  before  long." 

Laura  had  just  fifty  cents  in  money  in 
her  pocket  and  it  was  nearly  night.  Was 
it  true,  she  thought,  if  she  waited  to  get 
her  money  from  the  safe  that  she  could  not 
get  away  that  night?  What  did  the  man 
mean?  There  were  sounds  at  that  moment 
on  the  floor  above  which  made  Laura  de- 
cide quickly,  and  taking  her  bag  she  was 
soon  on  the  street,  walking,  but  she  knew 
not  whither — down — down — wondering — 
fearing — praying — until  nightfall. 

On  a  corner  she  saw  a  policeman  whose 
face  looked  honest  and  kind,  and  she  asked 
him  to  direct  her  to  a  lodging-house  for 
women,  a  cheap  but  respectable  place.  He 


88  Helping  the  Helpless 

not  only  gave  her  the  address,  but  pointed 
the  way  so  clearly  she  could  not  miss  it. 

The  next  morning,  when  she  went  to 
pay  for  her  night's  lodging,  she  told  part 
of  her  story  to  the  matron.  This  woman 
was  in  touch  with  our  work  in  lower  New 
York  and  it  was  not  long  before  the  girl 
was  safely  in  our  hands. 

Upon  my  desk  that  morning  lay  a  letter 
received  the  day  before  from  a  lady  who 
was  not  a  stranger,  whose  beautiful  home 
with  its  many  surrounding  acres  of  ground 
overlooked  the  Hudson.  This  lady  had 
written  telling  her  needs: 


"You  know  my  Jamie;  the  attendant  who  has 
been  with  my  crippled  lad  has  had  to  go  away. 
I  do  not  suppose  you  can  help  me  find  just  the 
right  one — it  is  hardly  in  your  line — but  I  do  want 
to  find  a  bright,  sweet  young  lady — one  we  can 
take  right  into  our  home  and  make  one  of  us, 
who  will  read  to  Jamie  and  amuse  him.  But  I 
wish — and  I  do  feel  this  is  too  much  to  expect — I 
wish  I  could  find  someone  with  enough  of  the  gift 
of  music  to  sing  to  him  when  those  distressing 
spells  of  his  come  on.  The  dear  little  boy  does 
suffer  so  at  times,  as  you  know." 


A  Companion  89 

This  letter  had  not  been  answered.  Laura 
was  sent  there,  and  proved  to  more  than 
meet  their  needs.  Later  they  wrote  thank- 
ing us  for  sending  them  "such  a  bonnie 
song-bird,"  and  adding  that  Jamie  was  al- 
ready devoted  to  her. 

It  might  have  been  a  year  after  that,  as 
I  sat  one  morning  in  my  little  inner  room, 
that  someone  slipped  up  behind  my  chair 
and  then  a  pair  of  arms  were  placed  close 
about  my  neck,  a  face  touched  my  cheek, 
and  a  sweet  girlish  voice  said,  "Oh,  I  must 
thank  you  this  way  for  saving  me!" 

Not  long  after  this  it  was  reported  that 
someone  else  beside  little  Jamie  was  devoted 
to  the  "bonnie  song-bird"  and  that  it  was 
Jamie's  big,  good  Uncle  James. 


VII 
A  LITTLE  PROPERTY 


N  the  basement  of  a  tall 
house,  on  the  lower  east 
side  of  New  York,  lived 
a  cobbler  who  hammered 
away  at  old  shoes  which 
were  brought  to  him  to  mend  by  people 
who  were  too  poor  to  buy  new  ones.  He 
was  obliged  to  work  very  close  to  the  win- 
dow, and  even  there  the  light  was  dim,  as 
the  room  was  below  the  sidewalk.  At  the 
rear,  where  the  window  was  only  three  feet 
from  the  next  high  building,  his  wife, 
Sophie,  did  their  scanty  cooking,  and  kept 
the  little  home,  as  tidy  as  she  could  by  the 
dim  light  of  an  old,  smoky,  oil  lamp. 

It  was  a  damp,  dreary  place,  full  of  the 
odor  of  old  leather,  this  home  into  which 
little  baby  Sophie  came.  Not  long  after 

90 


A  Little  Property  91 

the  birth  of  the  child,  though  the  nurse  of 
the  City  Mission  gave  her  the  best  of  care, 
the  mother  slipped  away  from  the  dismal 
basement  and  left  Peter,  the  cobbler,  and 
their  baby  girl  most  forlorn. 

On  the  third  floor  of  this  high  building 
lived  a  German  woman,  who  was  consid- 
ered the  grand  lady  of  the  house.  She  had 
two  windows  toward  the  street,  where  the 
sun  shone  in  a  part  of  the  day  through  the 
old  lace  curtains.  When  the  children  of 
all  the  homes  above  this  grand  lady,  away 
up  to  the  roof,  came  trooping  down  the 
stairs,  they  were  always  eager  to  stop,  and 
get  a  peek  through  the  crack  of  the  door, 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  old  Mrs.  Schmidt's 
elegance.  There  was  a  stuffed  sofa  which 
had  once  been  red  and  purple  and  green  and 
yellow,  but  they  never  noticed  that  one  leg 
was  gone  and  that  it  was  propped  up  with 
a  board.  There  were  two  chairs  covered 
with  the  same  flowered  stuff,  except  for 
the  patches,  one  of  which,  if  you  called 


92  Helping  the  Helpless 

upon  Mrs.  Schmidt  she  would  carefully 
keep  you  from  sitting  on,  for  one  leg  was 
past  repair.  There  was  a  gay  lambrequin, 
with  fringe,  a  big  vase  on  the  mantelpiece, 
a  picture  of  Bismarck  in  a  gilt  frame,  and 
other  things  which  had  once  been  whole, 
but  were  now  so  broken  and  chipped  as  to 
have  lost  all  suggestion  of  any  former  use 
or  beauty. 

Mrs.  Schmidt  didn't  have  to  work  very 
much,  for  at  frequent  intervals  there  came 
to  her  registered  letters  from  Germany. 
The  other  tenants  of  the  house, — the  O'Raf- 
fertys,  the  Timonses,  and  those  of  different 
nationalities,  —  stood  in  awe  of  Mrs. 
Schmidt,  for  she  had  little  to  say  and  held 
her  head  rather  high.  And  so,  when  she 
went  down  the  stairs,  dressed  in  her  good 
black  dress  and  long  gold  chain,  with  a 
white  feather  in  her  hat,  they  felt  that  this 
grand  lady  gave  tone  to  the  whole  building. 

When  little  Sophie  was  born,  Mrs. 
Schmidt's  big  heart,  in  her  capacious  body, 


LITTLE  BURDEN  BEARERS 

At  different  centers  on  Friday,  afternoons,  we  hold  what  is  called 
"Children's  Hour,"  with  stories  and  songs.  Here,  all  the 
little  ones  are  welcomed. 


A  Little  Property  93 

grew  very  warm  and  it  led  her  to  look  in 
on  the  Polish  family  in  the  basement.  After 
the  little  mother's  body  was  carried  away 
she  went  down  into  the  midst  of  the  bits 
of  leather,  and  said  kindly  to  the  stricken 
husband  and  father:  "I  'ave  a  goot  place 
up  de  stairs,  an'  no  childer.  If  you  like  ter 
lent  me  de  baby  avhile  I  vill  take  care  uv 
'er  fer  you,  den  you  can  turn  yerself  al- 
ready." 

A  dozen  other  families  in  the  house 
would  have  done  the  same,  for  the  poor 
are  ever  ready  to  help  the  poor,  but  Mrs. 
Schmidt  had  the  sunshine,  and  did  not  have 
to  go  out  to  work  and  leave  her  door 
locked,  letting  the  child  stay  alone.  The 
missionary  nurse  was  ready  to  visit  and 
care  for  the  baby  just  the  same  as  though 
it  had  staid  with  its  father,  so  little  Sophie 
became  a  part  of  Mrs.  Schmidt's  elegant 
home,  and  took  possession  of  Mrs.  Schmidt's 
big  heart. 

A  few  years  passed  by,  and  Sophie  was 


94  Helping  the  Helpless 

old  enough  to  join  the  primary  Sunday 
School  class,  which  the  missionary  nurse 
conducted  most  interestingly  every  Sunday 
morning.  Mrs.  Schmidt  had  no  use  for  re- 
ligion,— she  had  gotten  above  the  Bible  and 
its  superstitions.  Invitations  to  attend  the 
German  service  were  always  refused,  and 
she  was  quite  unwilling  that  Sophie  should 
have  anything  to  do  with  a  church.  But  the 
little  girl's  eagerness  to  go,  and  her  love 
for  the  nurse,  at  last  overcame  the  old 
woman's  reluctance,  and  a  compromise  was 
made.  If  Mrs.  Schmidt  could  go  with 
Sophie  and  sit  on  one  side,  and  understand 
what  was  going  on  there,  she  would  let 
Sophie  go  to  Sunday  School.  After  that, 
the  two  were  to  be  seen  in  the  primary 
class  Sunday  after  Sunday.  Later  on,  the 
child  coaxed  her  foster-mother  into  the 
preaching  service,  and  the  gospel  seed 
found  good  ground,  took  root,  grew  and 
blossomed,  and  Mrs.  Schmidt  became  an 
earnest  member  of  the  German  Church. 


A  Little  Property  95 

When  Sophie  was  about  six  years  old, 
Mrs.  Schmidt  was  taken  ill.  The  attacks 
of  pain,  from  which  she  had  suffered,  in- 
creased and  the  old  woman  began  to  realize 
that  the  time  would  come,  and  perhaps  sud- 
denly, when  the  little  girl  she  loved  would 
be  left  without  her  care. 

"I  vant  mine  leetle  girl  to  'ave  mine  leetle 
property,"  she  said,  "an*  we  must  not  let 
her  to  de  basement  go.  She  is  mine  own 
leetle  one."  A  young  German  lawyer  was 
found,  who  made  her  will  at  a  reasonable 
price.  Not  many  weeks  after,  sudden  death 
came,  as  she  had  feared,  and  the  same  law- 
yer helped  us  settle  up  the  estate,  which 
amounted,  when  all  debts  were  paid,  to 
about  one  hundred  dollars. 

In  the  meantime,  old  Peter,  the'  cobbler, — 
feeling  that  his  child  was  well  cared  for, — 
had  drifted  away  to  another  city,  and  to 
some  other  employment.  The  one  hundred 
dollars  was  put  into  a  savings  bank  in  the 


96  Helping  the  Helpless 

name  of  Sophie,  but  we  were  made  trustees 
or  guardians. 

The  summer  before  Mrs.  Schmidt  died, 
as  she  was  not  then  well,  we  gained  her 
consent  for  Sophie  to  go  with  a  Fresh  Air 
party  to  a  farmer's  home  in  the  western 
part  of  the  State.  Upon  her  return  to  the 
city,  after  a  stay  of  only  a  few  weeks,  the 
girl  had  such  red  cheeks  and  bright  eyes, 
and  told  such  glowing  stories  of  the  beauti- 
ful woods,  and  the  farmer's  home,  the  old 
woman  was  fairly  jealous  and  declared  that 
the  next  time  Sophie  was  asked  she  would 
go,  too. 

"I  want  this  same  little  girl  next  sum- 
mer," wrote  the  farmer.  "There's  a  stand- 
ing invitation  for  Sophie  to  come  and  stay 
as  long  as  her  folks  will  let  her " 

This  welcome  came  to  mind  very  forcibly, 
as  we  closed  the  tenement  rooms,  sold  the 
old  furniture,  and  asked  ourselves  the  ques- 
tion, what  should  be  done  with  Sophie? 

For  a  few  weeks  we  took  the  lonely  girl 


A  Little  Property  97 

into  our  own  home.  But  what  was  the 
best  plan  for  a  long  future?  A  half -orphan 
asylum  would  give  good  care  and  training, 
but  better  than  any  institution  would  be  a 
Christian  home  where,  as  a  foster-child,  she 
could  have  personal  love. 

Letters  were  sent  and  answered,  and  the 
farmer  and  his  wife  made  ready  a  pretty 
room,  with  toys  and  books,  and  then  wel- 
comed the  coming  of  this  little  girl  as  their 
own. 

A  year  later,  I  was  staying  for  a  time  at 
a  hotel  within  driving  distance  of  the  farm, 
and  decided  to  pay  them  a  visit.  Letters 
had  been  exchanged  between  the  foster- 
father  and  ourselves  as  to  Sophie's  future, 
and  he  knew  all  that  we  did  of  her  family, 
and  the  "little  property"  in  the  savings 
bank. 

As  our  carriage  drove  up,  along  the  lane 
leading  to  the  farmhouse,  the  farmer  was 
returning  from  the  fields  with  a  load  of 
hay.  Through  the  vines,  at  the  side  of  the 


98  Helping  the  Helpers 

porch,  we  could  see  a  group  of  little  girls 
dressed  in  white  playing  and  laughing  and 
setting  out  a  table  for  refreshments.  In  the 
centre  was  Sophie,  in  a  pretty  white  dress, 
her  hair  adorned  with  blue  ribbons. 
"Mother  said  I  might  play  this  is  my 
birthday,"  she  said,  after  greeting  us,  "and 
these  girls  are  in  the  same  Sunday  School 
class  with  me,  so  you  see  this  is  my  birth- 
day party,  and  I'm  so  glad  you  got  here! 
But  you  haven't  come — you  haven't  come 
to  take  me  away?" 

The  farmer  left  his  load,  and  with  a 
hearty  smile  and  hand-grasp  made  us  wel- 
come. After  a  little  waiting,  he  said:  "It 
wouldn't  be  strange,  not  knowing  me,  if  you 
should  think  I  wanted  to  keep  the  girl,  be- 
cause of  that  hundred  dollars  rollin'  up 
interest.  You  see  her  name  ain't  Sophie 
Polinsky  any  more,  she  is  Ruth  Rollins, 
and  I'm  business  man  enough  to  know  that 
if  anything  happened  she'll  never  get  a  cent 
of  it, — leastways  without  a  lot  of  trouble. 


A  Little  Property  99 

We  want  to  keep  her,  and  send  her  to 
school,  and  bring  her  up,  and  we've  given 
her  our  name;  and  now  just  to  prove  that 
I  mean  business,  and  to  save  that  money 
for  her,  when  maybe  she'll  need  it  by-and- 
by,  if  you  choose  to  trust  me  to  put  it  in 
the  savings  bank  here  in  this  nearby  town, 
where  the  girl  can  get  it  by-and-by,  when 
she  needs  it,  I'll  put  in  just  the  same  amount 
of  money  for  her  myself."  Suiting  the 
action  to  the  word,  he  pulled  from  the 
depths  of  his  trousers'  pocket, — under  the 
overalls  he  wore, — a  hundred  dollars,  and 
laid  it  down  with  a  slap.  "There  it  is,  and 
I'll  add  on  the  interest  to  a  penny  when  I 
know  exactly  what  it  is." 

In  that  home,  Sophie, — now  daughter 
Ruth, — has  been  loved  and  trained  and  pre- 
pared for  life.  As  a  young  lady  in  the 
social  circle  of  the  village  she  makes  no 
stir.  She  is  not  beautiful  of  face  or  figure. 
She  cannot  boast  of  great  learning,  but 
Ruth  can  bake  bread,  and  cake  good  enough 


100  Helping  the  Helpless 

for  a  county  fair.  She  can  mend,  and 
make,  and  best  of  all  she  has  the  art  of 
being  happy,  and  making  everyone  happy 
in  the  home  where  she  lives. 

The  children  all  love  her  and  old  people 
enjoy  visiting  with  her.  She  makes  a 
good  teacher  of  the  primary  class  in  the 
Sunday  School.  She  has  no  special  talent, 
yet  every  one  agrees  she  is  a  comfortable 
girl  to  live  with. 

"A  commonplace  life  we  say,  and  we  sigh; 

But  why  do  we  sigh  as  we  say? 
For  a  commonplace  sun  in  a  commonplace  sky, 
Makes  up  a  commonplace  day." 


VIII 


FRAULEIN 

HE  love  part  of  a  story  is 
usually  at  the  end.  After 
many  difficulties  and  much 
misunderstanding  the  hero 
tells  his  lady  fair  what 
she  knew  all  the  time  perfectly  well,  the 
wedding  follows  and  the  curtain  falls. 

Not  so  with  this  simple,  but  true  little 
tale.  It  must  begin  with  the  fact  that  Fritz 
loved  the  blue-eyed  Christina,  and  had  not 
only  told  her  so,  but  had  also  stated  that 
fact  to  his  own  family,  to  Christina's  old 
grandfather  and  to  his  frau — Christina's 
step-grandmother. 

"This  marriage,  Fritz,"  said  his  mother, 
"will  be  impossible.  I  am  sorry,  but  we 
have  other  plans  for  you.  Christina  is  a 
sweet  girl  and  will  make  some  fine  young 

101 


102  Helping  the  Helpless 

man  a  good  haus-frau,  but  not  our  Fritz — 
our  only  son.  The  girl  we  have  selected 
for  you  is  of  good  family,  beautiful,  and 
with  a  fat  dowry.  From  what  we  are  told 
she  will  not  only  keep  your  house  well — 
she  can  knit  and  sew  and  cook — but  she 
can  also  sing  and  play.  We  have  it  all 
arranged  with  her  parents,  who  quite  agree 
with  us  that  it  will  be  a  proper  marriage. 
She  is  an  only  daughter  and  you  are  our 
only  son.  There  will  be  much  money  com- 
ing to  you  from  both  families.  You  will 
be  a  rich  man  by  and  by." 

German  authority  is  not  often  questioned, 
and  Fritz  was  a  loyal  and  obedient  son. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "I  shall  not  marry 
Christina  while  you  are  unwilling  to  receive 
her.  She  and  I  can  wait  I  shall  not  leave 
her  and  she  loves  me.  Liebe  mutter,  no 
other  girl  in  all  the  world  do  I  want — only 
my  own  little  sweetheart.  I  cannot  marry 
anyone  else.  The  girl  with  the  fat  dowry 
will  not  want  a  man  whose  heart  is  else- 


Fraulein  103 

where.  I  shall  stay  with  you,  but  I  shall 
never  marry  anyone  but  my  own  little 
Christina." 

In  a  cottage  home  beyond  the  town, 
several  miles  from  the  large  mansion  where 
dwelt  the  parents  of  Fritz,  Christina  lived 
with  her  old  grandfather.  They  had  been 
told  frankly  about  the  decision  which  had 
been  made  by  the  parents  of  her  lover.  The 
girl  and  the  old  grandfather  were  much  to 
each  other,  and  she  opened  her  heart  to 
him. 

"I  cannot  stay  here.  I  must  go  away. 
I  cannot  see  my  Fritz  married  to  another 
girl.  They  will  surely  force  him  into  it. 
He  is  so  good  and  loves  his  father  and 
mother  so  much,  he  will  have  to  please 
them.  You  know,  grandfather,  how  we 
Germans  are — how  we  feel  when  an  only 
son  does  not  have  a  house  and  home  and 
family.  Oh,  I  cannot  stay.  Will  you  let 
me  go  with  the  Sister  who  is  going  back 
to  her  work  in  America?  She  says  she 


104  Helping  the  Helpless 

will  train  me — she  has  a  school  for  girls 
who  want  to  do  good,  and  will  take  good 
care  of  me.  I  don't  want  to  leave  you,  my 
dear  good  grandfather,  but — oh,  I  cannot 
stay!"  And  with  sobs  choking  her  voice 
she  threw  her  arms  around  the  old  man's 
neck — "I  cannot  stay  and  see  Fritz  married 
to  that  girl.  By  and  by,  after  I  am  trained, 
I  will  come  back  and  take  care  of  you,  and 
help  poor  sick  people.  I  won't  mind  then." 

A  few  days  after  this  the  Sister  from 
America,  dressed  in  a  peculiar  garb,  called 
at  Christina's  home  and  added  her  persua- 
sion to  the  entreaties  of  the  girl.  Promises 
were  given  for  a  careful  training  in  at- 
tractive work,  and  at  last  the  grandfather 
yielded  and  with  trembling  hands  gave  over 
to  the  German  woman  from  America  the 
sum  of  money  she  required  for  the  passage, 
training  and  care  of  the  girl. 

After  much  preparation  the  last  day  came 
and  it  seemed  as  though  the  old  man's  heart 
would  break  to  part  from  Christina.  "God 


Fraulein  105 

is  my  trust  in  this  awful  darkness,"  he 
said.  "He  will  never  leave  nor  forsake  my 
little  one.  He  rules  the  wind  and  the  waves 
and  He  will  keep  you  safe  on  this  great 
voyage.  His  promises  will  hold  like  an 
anchor  even  in  far  off  America." 

Then  came  the  last  good-bye,  and  the 
saintly  old  man  with  wet  cheeks,  with  one 
arm  clinging  around  the  girl  and  the  other 
raised  to  Heaven,  with  solemn  voice  prayed, 
"May  the  Lord  watch  over  you.  May  the 
Lord  guard  and  guide  you,  my  precious 
one.  May  the  good  God  bring  you  back 
to  my  heart  and  home  before  I  go  hence." 

The  steamboat  express  for  Hamburg 
must  always  keep  schedule  time.  It  could 
stop  only  for  a  moment  at  the  junction  for 
a  delayed  train  and  then  must  rush  on.  So 
a  long  thin  trail  of  smoke  was  all  that  could 
be  seen  of  this  express  as  a  German- 
American  lady  hurried  from  the  train  on 
the  branch  road.  "How  annoying,"  she 
said.  "I've  lost  that  train,  and  so  I  have 


106  Helping  the  Helpless 

lost  my  steamer — oh,  why — why?"  At 
Hamburg  other  plans  had  to  be  made,  and 
in  a  few  days  this  traveler  had  joined  the 
motley  throng  on  the  deck  of  another  ship 
bound  for  New  York. 

Peculiar  people,  and  customs  which  would 
look  strange  on  the  city  street,  excite  little 
notice  in  the  crowd  of  passengers  on  board 
an  ocean  liner.  But  the  German-American 
lady's  attention  was  directed,  almost  before 
the  ship  left  the  pier,  to  two  women  dressed 
in  a  peculiar  garb.  The  contrast  between 
these  two  women  held  the  lady's  attention — 
one  of  them  was  young,  pretty,  and  timid 
appearing;  the  other  was  middle  aged, 
plain,  and  with  a  decidedly  aggressive  man- 
ner. The  dress  was  black,  made  with  a 
full  skirt  and  sleeves ;  the  waist  was  pleated. 
The  bonnet  was  made  of  white  linen  and 
tied  underneath  the  chin  with  strings  of 
white  linen,  while  attached  to  the  plain 
front-piece  which  surrounded  the  face  was 
a  full  crown,  hanging  loosely  and  forming 


Fraulein  107 

a  sort  of  broad  collar  which  extended  well 
out  on  the  shoulders. 

In  their  promenade  up  and  down  the  deck 
the  younger  woman  began  to  tire,  and  the 
older  one  tucked  her  into  a  steamer  chair, 
bidding  her  rest,  but  to  be  sure  to  have 
nothing  whatever  to  say  to  anyone.  Was 
it  "chance"  that  placed  the  German-Ameri- 
can lady's  steamer  chair  next  to  the  one 
occupied  by  Christina,  or  was  it  in  answer 
to  prayer? 

Back  and  forth  paced  the  older  woman 
until  a  group  playing  cards  attracted  her, 
first  into  watching  and  then  into  joining 
in  the  game.  After  a  bit  drinks  were 
ordered,  she  was  urged  to  share,  and  seemed 
nothing  loath  to  join  in  this  also. 

Little  Fraulein  was  very  obedient  and  sat 
quietly  in  her  chair,  but  the  sad,  lonely- 
looking  girl  presented  a  very  pathetic  pic- 
ture. So  thought  the  occupant  of  the  chair 
next  to  her  and  she  realized  that  the  mist 
and  spray  sent  up  by  old  Ocean  could  not 


108  Helping  the  Helpless 

be  responsible  for  all  the  moisture  that  rilled 
the  blue  eyes  and  trickled  down  the  white 
cheek. 

Unable  to  use  or  even  understand  a  word 
of  English,  Fraulein  could  all  the  better 
obey  the  command,  "Make  no  words  with 
anyone !"  The  German- American  lady  ven- 
tured to  express  a  bit  of  sympathy  in  the 
tongue  of  the  Fatherland,  but  all  her  efforts 
were  quietly  repulsed.  After  a  while,  how- 
ever, the  girl's  heart  warmed  under  the 
kindly  words  and  more  kindly  tone,  and 
when  the  older  woman  was  out  of  sight, 
little  by  little  Fraulein  told  a  part  of  her 
story,  and  as  the  days  went  by  the  two 
travelers  side  by  side  became  very  good 
friends. 

"The  Sister  is  really  very  good,"  said  the 
girl,  "and  is  kind  to  the  sick  and  the  poor. 
There  are  so  many  poor  Germans  in  New 
[York  City  that  she  has  a  house  for  them 
and  a  little  hospital  and  a  training  school, 
too.  She  has  been  to  Germany  before  and 


Fraulein  109 

told  about  her  work  and  people  have  given 
her  money;  and  grandfather  paid  her  to 
give  me  the  training.  I  did  not  want  to 
stay  at  home  now — there  is  a  good  reason. 
I  will  go  back,  by  and  by,  when  my  Fritz 
is  married  and  settled  down.  You  see,  the 
Sister  came  to  our  house  and  she  knew  I 
was  unhappy,  she  offered  to  take  me,  to 
train  me  in  her  school.  My  parents  are 
dead.  Dear  old  grandfather  did  not  want 
me  to  come — if  he  had  not  been  willing 
I  would  not  have  come.  He  cried  and  said 
it  would  kill  him  if  his  little  girl  went  away 
to  far  off  America — by  and  by  I  will  go 
back — after  I  get  the  training." 

"Where  is  this  school,  or  house,  where 
you  are  going  with  the  Sister?"  asked  the 
lady. 

"It  is  on  an  avenue — I  do  not  know 
just  where — of  course,  New  York  City  is 
a  very  big  place — the  Sister  did  not  tell  me 
just  where." 

In  God's  great  plan  this  German-Ameri- 


110  Helping  the  Helpless 

can  lady  was  a  trained  nurse  in  the  City 
Mission  service,  working  among  the  sick 
and  the  poor  of  the  crowded  East  Side  in 
New  York  City.  Her  large  experience  made 
her  feel  troubled  about  this  simple-hearted 
girl.  Was  she  being  deceived? 

Fraulein,  however,  was  confident  that 
everything  was  all  right  and  that  the  Sister 
was  really  very  good.  Had  not  her  friends 
trusted  her  and  had  not  her  dear  old  grand- 
father trusted  her?  She  surely  must  be  all 
right. 

But  this  did  not  satisfy  her  new  found 
friend.  So  she  wrote  out  full  directions 
in  both  English  and  German,  making  it  very 
clear  how  this  girl  could  find  her,  if  at  any 
time  she  might  need  a  friend  in  the  great 
city.  After  a  little  urging  Fraulein  took 
the  slip  of  paper  and  promised  to  say 
nothing  about  it  to  the  Sister. 

In  the  confusion  of  landing  and  with 
customs  examination  the  German-American 
lady  found  it  impossible  to  follow  the  strange 


Fraulein  111 

pair  to  learn  where  the  Sister  lived;  then 
came  the  needs  of  the  work  crowding  in 
upon  her,  until  the  meeting  with  the  sad 
little  German  girl  became  merely  an  incident 
of  the  voyage  and  passed  from  her  mind  for 
the  moment. 

It  was  not  so  very  long  after  this,  how- 
ever, that  a  little  German  note,  enclosed  in 
the  very  envelope  she  herself  had  directed, 
found  its  way  into  the  hands  of  the  Ger- 
man-American lady,  and  it  told  her  that 
Fraulein  did  need  a  friend,  and  needed  one 
right  away,  and  gave  instructions  where  she 
could  be  found. 

Very  promptly  the  lady  responded  by 
hunting  up  the  place.  She  found  the  house 
most  forbidding,  with  its  closely  locked 
doors  and  drawn  shades,  while  there  was 
not  a  sound  within.  The  door  was  tried 
again  and  again  but  in  vain,  so  she  stood 
waiting  for  a  moment,  then  in  the  distance 
she  saw  the  Sister  coming,  followed  by 
Fraulein,  each  carrying  a  basket  of  food. 


Helping  the  Helpless 


In  a  loud  angry  voice  the  Sister  asked 
the  caller  what  she  wanted  and  then  ordered 
her  away  and  told  her  to  mind  her  own 
business.  Fraulein  was  commanded  not  to 
speak  to  her.  The  door  was  opened,  and 
shut  quickly  with  a  bang  in  the  vistor's  face, 
and  locked  from  the  inside. 

A  sobbing  appeal  was  heard  to  please  let 
her  talk  to  the  good  kind  lady  just  one 
moment.  This  was  followed  by  the  slam- 
ming of  another  door  on  the  inside  —  and 
then  silence  reigned. 

The  next  day  the  German-  American  lady, 
who  was  not  so  easily  frightened,  called  at 
the  house  again.  The  Sister  had  gone  out 
evidently  thinking  the  reception  of  the  day 
before  would  have  the  desired  results. 
Tremblingly  little  Fraulein  unlocked  the 
great  door  and  let  her  in;  and  clinging  to 
her  the  girl  told  her  story. 

There  was  no  training  —  there  was  no 
hospital  —  she  was  kept  scrubbing  and  wash- 
ing, and  then  she  had  to  go  out  with  the  Sis- 


Fraulein  113 

ter  begging  for  food.  When  she  was  not  out 
with  the  Sister  she  was  locked  in.  She  had 
been  told  she  must  not  write  to  her  grand- 
father at  present — that  the  letter  written  by 
the  Sister  was  quite  sufficient. 

At  night  all  sorts  of  men  and  boys  called 
and  she  had  to  make  special  soup  for  them, 
greasy  and  thick.  Some  of  the  men  stayed 
all  night  and  talked  to  her — English  was 
hard  to  understand — but  it  sounded  bad, 
and  they  looked  at  her  in  a  way  she  did  not 
like — she  was  afraid  and  hungry  and  home- 
sick. The  Sister  was  very  cross  and  said 
she  had  not  been  paid  enough  money,  that 
she  must  learn  to  eat  the  soup,  or  earn 
money  in  some  way,  and  that  she  must  stop 
crying.  "Oh,"  Fraulein  added,  "if  only  I 
could  get  away — can  you  not  take  me?  I 
shall  die  here — I  feel  afraid  all  the  time. 
Oh,  if  only  my  grandfather  knew!" 

This  visit  was  cut  short  by  the  return  of 
the  Sister,  who  was  very  angry  at  this 
second  intrusion  of  the  strange  woman. 


114  Helping  the  Helpless 

The  next  visit  was  made  with  an  officer 
in  citizen's  clothes.  The  Sister  was  told 
that  the  girl  was  of  age  and  able  to  decide 
for  herself,  that  she  had  come  to  America 
for  training  which  had  been  paid  for  and 
which  she  was  not  receiving,  that  the  Ger- 
man-American lady  was  ready  to  assist  the 
girl  to  secure  what  she  desired,  and  that  she 
had  come  to  take  Fraulein  away  at  her 
own  request. 

This  brought  forth  a  perfect  tornado  of 
vile,  indecent  words  and  curses,  which  was 
quieted  only  when  the  officer's  badge  was 
disclosed  and  the  woman  warned  that  such 
language  would  lead  to  her  arrest. 

Then  she  launched  forth  upon  a  perfect 
sea  of  abuse,  charging  Fraulein  with  in- 
gratitude and  wickedness;  telling  her  she 
was  no  good  whatever  to  her;  that  if  she 
went  away  with  that  strange  woman  she 
would  surely  be  taken  into  a  bad  life;  that 
the  home  people  should  be  told  by  the  next 
mail  how  their  little  Fraulein  had  gone  to  the 


Fraulein  115 

devil;  that  when  the  old  grandfather  knew 
it  it  would  kill  him;  and  that  he  was  going 
to  know  the  worst,  and,  too,  that  not  one 
penny  of  the  money  would  be  given  back; 
that  the  girl  should  not  receive  one  cent, 
and  that  her  trunk  must  stay  right  there. 

It  had  been  arranged  to  have  an  express- 
man ready  outside,  and  at  last,  with  another 
flash  of  the  officer's  glittering  badge  and 
a  view  of  the  determined  look  on  his  face, 
the  trunk  was  brought  forth.  But  the 
Sister  could  not  let  it  go  without  venting 
her  anger  still  further,  by  giving  the  trunk 
such  a  vicious  kick  with  her  heavy  shoes 
that  the  lock  was  broken,  declaring  there 
must  be  something  in  that  trunk  that  be- 
longed to  her,  for  the  girl  was  surely  a 
thief,  and  would  be  sent  to  jail.  "And 
then,"  she  added,  "your  friends  in  Germany 
will  realize  how  bad  you  are !" 

The  officer  helped  the  trembling  girl  out 
of  the  house,  and  as  she  went  down  the 
steps  she  turned  to  say  "Good-bye,"  whereat 


116  Helping  the  Helpless 

the  Sister,  in  a  more  violent  attack  of  rage, 
hurled  the  broom  after  her,  calling  out, 
"Thief!  Thief!!"  and  quickly  picking  up 
a  stick  that  lay  by,  she  placed  it  across  the 
broom  thus  making  the  sign  of  the  cross, 
and  standing  beside  it,  she  spat  after  the 
departing  trio. 

Suitable  clothing,  a  warm  welcome  and 
loving  care  were  given  to  the  little  Fraulein, 
who  gratefully  responded  to  every  kindness. 
To  the  City  Mission  leader  and  to  others 
who  learned  to  love  her,  she  was  like  a 
sweet  friend.  But  to  the  City  Mission 
nurse  the  girl  clung  most  lovingly,  fearing 
to  allow  her  out  of  her  sight.  "My  dear 
little  rescue  mother — my  little  rescue 
mother,"  she  would  say. 

A  letter  giving  information  about  the  So- 
ciety and  its  Christian  work  was  sent  to 
the  home  people  in  Germany,  but  not  before 
the  Sister  had  sent  her  story  about  the 
"ungrateful  and  wicked  girl"  having  gone 
into  a  life  of  sin,  and  how  she  feared  they 
would  never  see  their  pretty  Fraulein  again. 


Fraulein  117 

Soon  after  the  rescue  of  Fraulein,  and 
while  she  was  under  my  care,  it  so  hap- 
pened that  the  son  of  the  superintendent, 
with  a  patient,  two  Christian  gentlemen, 
were  to  sail  for  Germany  to  spend  several 
months.  They  talked  with  Fraulein,  learned 
about  her  people,  and  took  letters  from  her 
to  them.  On  their  arrival  in  the  German 
city,  they  settled  down  near  her  home  for 
a  short  time  to  strengthen  their  knowledge 
of  the  German  language,  and  made  a  few 
friends  of  the  same  Christian  character  as 
themselves. 

It  was  Sunday  afternoon,  when  they  went 
to  find  the  home  of  Fraulein  in  the  suburbs 
of  the  city.  Word  had  been  sent  to  the 
grandfather,  and  in  the  parlor  he  was  lead- 
ing a  religious  meeting  and  prayer  service 
for  his  little  girl  so  far  away.  Her  letter 
and  the  letter  from  the  strange  American 
gentleman  were  so  different  from  those 
sent  by  the  Sister  that  it  was  impossible 
for  the  friends  to  understand  what  it  all 
meant.  "Can  our  Fraulein  be  a  thief?'* 


118  Helping  the  Helpless 

one  had  asked  the  other.  "Has  she  truly 
gone  wrong?  Why  did  she  leave  the  train- 
ing school — why?  What  is  this  Mission 
Society?  Who  was  the  strange  lady  on  the 
steamer?"  "Wait,"  said  the  grandfather, 
"wait — wait  and  pray  and  trust,  and  let  us 
believe  our  little  girl's  story  until  we  know 
more." 

At  the  close  of  the  service  the  American 
gentlemen  made  themselves  known,  and 
presented  letters,  pictures  and  other  proofs 
of  their  statements.  The  aged  grandfather 
listened  intently  to  every  word,  standing 
all  the  while  as  though  in  prayer,  his  face 
as  white  as  the  silver  hair  which  crowned 
it.  At  the  close  he  turned  quickly  and 
threw  his  arms  about  the  neck  of  the 
younger  man  and  kissed  him  on  both  cheeks. 
Little  Fraulein  was  vindicated!  And  the 
rejoicing  in  that  household  can  only  be 
likened  to  the  joy  of  Heaven. 

While  Christina  was  in  America  the  rich 
girl,  selected  for  Fritz,  took  her  affairs  into 
her  own  hands  and  decided  she  would  not 


Fraulein  119 

wait  for  a  lover  who  had  told  her  he  loved 
another  girl,  and  so  she  carried  her  dowry 
into  a  family  glad  to  receive  her;  and  a 
grand  wedding  followed. 

The  parents  of  Fritz  began  to  be  anxious ; 
they  did  not  enjoy  having  a  bachelor  son. 
Where  was  the  Fraulein?  Would  she  soon 
return?  What  were  these  reports  about  her? 
Who  were  these  two  American  gentlemen 
staying  in  the  city?  After  hearing  the  re- 
ports of  these  two  gentlemen,  their  hearts 
went  out  to  the  poor,  brave  little  girl,  and 
the  mother  said:  "Perhaps,  after  all,  Fritz 
should  marry  Christina  and  not  wait  any 
longer  for  us  to  find  some  other  girl  for 
him!" 

So  kindly  letters  were  sent  and  little  Frau- 
lein, who  was  always  busy  in  New  York 
helping  in  many  ways  in  the  work  which 
her  "Rescue  Mother"  was  doing  among  the 
poor,  began  to  sing  as  she  worked,  and  the 
sad  look  in  her  face  turned  into  quiet 
smiles. 

Although  the  Sister  had  given  that  trunk 


120  Helping  the  Helpless 

a  hard  blow,  the  lock  could  be  mended,  and 
when  Christina's  busy  fingers  had  finished 
the  pretty  garments  she  made  for  herself, 
she  filled  it,  and  was  ready  to  sail  away  to 
the  homeland. 

This  time  she  did  not  travel  in  the  queer 
garb  of  a  make-believe  Sister,  but  in  a  very 
becoming  dark  blue  traveling  suit  and  hat. 
And  it  was  not  a  sad,  pale-faced  Fraulein, 
but  a  Fraulein  with  pink  cheeks  and  bright 
eyes  that  waved  "Good-bye"  from  the  deck 
of  the  steamer  to  her  American  friends  on 
the  shore. 

And  when  that  same  steamer  docked  on 
the  other  side  of  the  great  ocean,  the  first 
one  to  meet  and  greet  the  home-comer  was 
Fritz,  loving  and  loyal  Fritz, — and  he  had 
with  him  his  parents'  blessing. 

There  was  great  rejoicing  when  they 
reached  the  home  of  Fraulein's  old  grand- 
father. He  had  been  prostrated  with  grief 
and  anxiety,  but  grew  strong  with  the  joy 
of  seeing  his  loved  one  again.  And  at  the 


Fmulein  121 

wedding  which  soon  followed,  he  laid  his 
hands  on  their  bowed  heads  and  blessed 
them,  while  a  glory  shone  in  his  face — the 
glory  into  which  he  soon  after  entered  for- 
ever. 

The  German-American  lady  made  another 
visit  to  her  Fatherland,  and  one  summer 
day,  without  writing,  she  took  the  journey 
and  rang  the  door  bell  at  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Fritz's  home. 

"Who  is  it — a  stranger?"  questioned  Mrs. 
Fritz,  coming  forward  with  her  baby  boy 
in  her  arms;  but  when  she  caught  sight  of 
her  visitor,  she  gave  a  little  scream  of  de- 
light, and  cried,  "Meine  Erlosende  Mutter! 
My  Rescue  Mother !" 

Some  years  later  I  visited  Germany  and 
this  nurse  was  with  me.  Together  we 
found  the  new  and  comfortable  home  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fritz.  Business  was  neglected 
that  day,  and  two  sturdy  boys  helped  to 
welcome  "mother's  friends"  from  far-off 
America. 


IX 


BONNIE  MARY 

OM  McKEEVER  felt  sure 
that  bad  luck  was  his  por- 
tion. At  any  rate  he  had 
had  nothing  but  bad  luck 
ever  since  he  crossed  the 
ocean  with  his  pretty  English  wife  and  be- 
gan life  in  New  York. 

First  he  had  been  taken  sick;  then  the 
blue-eyed  Mary  came,  and  a  year  afterward 
the  baby's  mother  died,  leaving  her  to  the 
father's  care. 

His  bad  luck  continued,  and  the  worst 
luck  of  all — so  he  said — was  when  he  de- 
cided to  marry  the  widow  with  six  children 
for  the  sake  of  a  home  and  care  for  the 
dear  little  bonnie  Mary.  His  idea  had  been 
that  his  earnings  would  be  well  spent  by 
the  widow  and  that  she  would  love  his  little 

122 


Bonnie  Mary  123 


girl  for  her  own  sake,  and  it  would  be 
easier  for  him  to  care  for  her  in  that  way, 
than  alone  in  a  room  in  a  tenement  house. 
But  rheumatism,  which  had  been  part  of 
Tom  McKeever's  bad  luck,  struck  his  heart 
one  day,  and  Bonnie  Mary  was  left  an 
orphan  in  the  great  city. 

The  step-mother  had  a  hard  struggle  to 
pay  the  rent  of  the  three  small  rooms,  and 
as  for  food  and  clothes,  there  was  not 
enough  to  go  around  for  her  own  six. 
After  these  were  but  half  fed,  and  lacked 
shoes,  and  were  provided  with  only  much- 
patched  clothing,  there  was  really  nothing 
left  for  little  Mary. 

One  of  our  workers  among  the  poor  and 
needy  found  little  Mary  ragged  and  hungry, 
uncared  for  and  unloved.  In  spite  of  rags 
and  dirt  she  was  a  beautiful  child,  with 
large  blue  eyes,  dimpled  cheek,  and  her  fair 
hair  in  little  ringlets  all  over  her  head.  She 
was  most  affectionate,  too,  responding  to 
every  kindness. 


124  Helping  the  Helpless 

The  widow  was  most  happy  to  pass  the 
child  over  to  anyone  who  could  care  for 
her.  A  plan  was  carried  out  for  boarding 
her  on  a  farm  in  the  country,  for  a  small 
sum,  until  we  should  know  what  to  do  with 
her  permanently.  The  out-of-door  life, 
with  good  milk  and  plenty  of  it,  made  little 
Mary  grow  still  more  beautiful. 

One  day  a  lady,  dressed  in  the  height 
of  fashion,  drove  up  to  the  Charities 
Building  and  found  her  way  into  my  inner 
sanctum.  She  had  heard  that  sometimes  in 
our  work  we  found  pretty  little  children, 
who  were  alone  and  might  prove  very 
promising,  if  they  had  good  care.  She 
wanted  to  adopt  a  pretty,  fair-haired  child 
and  bring  her  up  as  her  own  daughter.  She 
told  of  her  town  house  and  her  mansion  at 
a  leading  watering  place,  of  how  she  and 
her  husband  had  talked  it  over  and  decided 
that  their  home  would  be  happier  and 
brighter  with  a  little  daughter  growing  up 
into  womanhood  in  it, 


Bonnie  Mary  125 

Little  Mary  was  sent  for  and  seemed  to 
satisfy  every  desire  of  the  lady's  heart. 
Gingham  dresses  and  aprons  and  heavy 
shoes  were  left  behind,  and  the  finest  rnus- 
lins,  the  daintiest  embroidery  and  beautiful 
ribbons  were  provided  by  the  new  foster 
mother. 

Thus  attired  the  child  was  indeed  in 
keeping  with  her  elegant  home.  Clinging 
to  the  hand  of  her  new  mother,  little  Mary 
was  helped  into  the  carriage  by  the  footman 
as  though  she  had  always  lived  in  luxury. 

Several  months  later  the  same  carriage 
drew  up  before  our  building,  the  same  ele- 
gant lady  with  her  husband  following  came 
again  into  my  inner  sanctum,  the  child  with 
them,  tenderly  clinging  to  the  man  she 
called  "dear  papa."  While  the  lady  talked 
with  me  the  little  girl  sat  in  the  man's  lap 
stroking  his  cheek  and  loving  him  with  all 
her  childish  heart. 

"I  have  come,"  said  the  elegant  madam, 
with  cold  dignity,  "to  return  this  child.  She 


126  Helping  the  Helpless 

is  a  very  dear  little  thing  and  seems  to  love 
us,  and  we  love  her — indeed  my  husband 
has  become  altogether  too  fond  of  her  to 
be  wise — but  I  cannot  keep  her.  You  should 
have  shown  me  the  scar  on  her  neck.  I 
shall  want  any  daughter  of  mine  to  have 
a  brilliant  social  life,  of  course,  and  this 
scar  would  be  noticed  when  she  wore  even- 
ing gowns.  I  tried  to  see  whether  pearls 
would  hide  it,  but  they  do  not,  so  I  have 
decided  on  the  whole  I  had  best  return  her." 
And  without  further  ado  she  swept  from 
the  room  and  the  foster  father  with  tears 
in  his  eyes  gave  Bonnie  Mary  a  loving  hug 
and  kiss  and  disappeared  in  the  wake  of  his 
elegant  wife. 

Back  to  the  farm  little  Mary  was  sent. 
The  fine  muslin  and  dainty  embroidery 
were  exchanged  for  the  gingham  and  the 
heavy  shoes. 

God's  ways  are  not  man's  ways.  The 
Scotch  father  and  English  mother  had  been 
praying  people,  and  though  they  had  gone, 


Bonnie  Mary  127 

their  little  one  was  not  forgotten  by  Him 
who  cares  for  even  the  sparrows.  There 
was  waiting  for  the  coming  of  little  Mary 
a  Christian  home  with  a  welcome  that 
endures. 

Hundreds  of  miles  from  New  York,  in 
a  quiet  town,  lived  a  family  of  cultured, 
Christian  people,  not  over-wealthy,  but  with 
means  enough  for  refinement  and  comfort — 
but  there  was  no  child.  The  wife  had  tried 
in  vain  to  find  the  kind  of  little  girl  they 
wanted  to  adopt.  At  last  a  distant  relative 
of  limited  income  decided  to  give  up  to  her 
one  of  her  own  little  ones.  Every  arrange- 
ment was  made  to  welcome  the  child — a 
room  with  dainty  bed  and  playthings  were 
ready,  but  when  the  would-be  foster  mother 
went  to  get  the  child  to  take  her  to  her 
heart  and  home,  the  relative  found  she 
could  not  keep  her  promise,  and  was  abso- 
lutely unwilling  to  part  with  her  child. 
Back  home  the  childless  woman  went,  so 


128  Helping  the  Helpless 

disappointed  that  she  resolved  never  to  try 
again. 

By  chance  (but  is  there  any  chance  with 
God's  children)  she  wrote  to  a  friend  in 
New  York  that  she  had  just  decided  that 
a  childless  home  was  her  portion,  and  never 
again  would  she  think  of  finding  a  Kttle 
girl  whom  she  could  love.  That  letter 
reached  the  friend  at  just  the  right  time. 
Promptly  a  reply  was  sent.  "Don't  be  dis- 
couraged if  the  child  you  wanted  was  denied 
you.  Will  you  not  consider  the  adoption 
of  a  little  Scotch-English  girl  whom  we  will 
send  right  out  to  you?"  The  answer  was 
"Send  her." 

To-day  in  that  home,  in  that  college 
town,  there  is  a  young  lady  daughter — 
beautiful,  refined,  well-educated — a  perfect 
treasure  to  every  one  in  the  home;  and  yet  if 
she  should  wear  a  low-necked  evening  gown, 
someone  would  notice  a  fine  line  of  a  scar, 
over  an  inch  long,  on  her  neck.  Her  name 
is  Bonnie  Mary. 


X 


'KETCHED  UP" 

T  seems,  somehow,  I  never 
get  ketched  up.  Rent 
day  comes  awful  quick, 
John  has  had  slack  times 
with  his  work,  the  chil- 
dren has  been  sick,  and  so  everything  just 
gets  ahead  of  me. 

"You  see,  when  I  was  married,  I  had  a 
little  saved  up  for  a  rainy  day,  even  after 
I  had  bought  some  pretty  good  things, — 
blankets  and  sheets  and  towels  and  all  that. 
We  begun  to  live  pretty  nice,  and  I  made 
up  my  mind  that  no  matter  what  come,  I 
was  going  to  keep  a  little  tidy  home,  and 
have  a  shiny  place,  but  I  can't.  I  gets  so 
tired  and  discouraged, — seems  no  use  to  try 
some  times.  If  only  I  could  once  get 

129 


130  Helping  the  Helpless 

ketched  up,  maybe  I'd  have  some  courage 
to  go  on." 

As  the  missionary  listened,  she  saw  a 
tub  half  full  of  soiled  clothes  which  had 
been  put  to  soak;  the  cupboard  was  in  dis- 
order ;  the  table  was  covered  with  the  crumbs 
and  dishes  of  the  breakfast.  Little  Elsie, 
wrapped  in  a  ragged  quilt,  was  asleep  in 
the  middle  of  the  miserable  bed. 

It  certainly  looked  hopeless,  even  to  the 
missionary,  who  was  accustomed  to  seeing 
poverty  and  disorder. 

Here  was  an  American  woman,  who 
knew  what  a  tidy  home  meant,  and,  while 
the  man's  wages  were  small,  they  were  not 
reduced  by  drink.  What  could  be  done  ? 

Talking  it  over  together  that  evening,  we 
resolved  to  make  an  effort  to  give  the  little 
woman  a  chance  to  get  "ketched  up  for 
once." 

Soon  after  this  there  was  to  be  an  all-day 
excursion  for  the  Sunday  School,  and 


"Ketched  Up"  131 

tickets  were  promised  to  the  mother  and 
children,  who  were  urged  to  go. 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  man,  "no  ticket 
for  me.  I'll  take  this  chance  to  go  out  and 
see  a  man  in  the  country  who  owes  me 
some  money.  Let  the  children  go,  and  I'll 
meet  'em  when  the  boat  lands,  and  help 
'em  get  home." 

By  a  little  strategy  the  hiding  place  of 
the  door  key  was  made  known,  and  when 
the  mother  and  children  and  the  father  had 
all  gone  for  the  day,  we  took  possession  of 
the  tenement  home.  A  boarding-school  girl, 
with  a  generous  heart,  had  sent  us  from 
her  allowance  a  gift  of  money  to  be  used 
for  something  or  somebody  special,  and 
this  was  now  our  "special."  A  poor  widow 
on  the  next  street,  who  we  knew  was  fight- 
ing hard  to  be  ready  for  rent  day,  was  sent 
for;  around  the  corner  was  a  young  man 
out  of  work,  who  was  glad  of  a  job. 

What  a  day  that  was,  of  battle  with  dirt 
and  disorder  i  And  it  ended  only  when  the 


132  Helping  the  Helpless 

shadows  told  us  that  the  family  would  soon 
return.  The  clothes  had  been  washed  and 
hung  out  to  dry;  the  floor  had  been 
scrubbed;  the  stove  was  shining  like  new; 
the  shelves  of  the  cupboard  were  clean, 
covered  with  papers,  and  bright  with  a  row 
of  canned  groceries.  A  new  blanket  and 
sheets  and  pillow-cases  made  the  bed  a 
very  different  place.  At  the  windows  were 
hung  cheap  scrim  curtains,  and  the  table 
was  covered  with  white  oilcloth  and  deco- 
rated with  a  small  growing  plant. 

A  neighbor,  as  we  worked,  peeked  in  to 
see  what  was  going  on,  and  ran  to  the 
grocer's  wife  at  the  corner  to  tell  her,  so 
both  came  to  gaze  and  admire.  They  were 
shortly  followed  by  the  wife  of  the  butcher, 
who  went  away  talking  to  herself, — a  house- 
cleaning  song  without  music. 

The  brightened  tea-kettle  was  singing 
cheerily  as  the  father  helped  the  tired  wife 
and  stumbling  children  up  the  stairs.  Just 


"Ketched  Up"  133 

outside,  at  a  turn  of  the  dark  hall,  we  were 
hiding. 

As  the  key  was  turned  in  the  lock,  and 
the  door  pushed* open,  the  man  started  back, 
exclaiming,  "Oh,  my  God!  we  have  been 
turned  out!  Somebody  has  moved  in  while 
we  were  gone!"  But  little  Elsie  said,  "No, 
father,  it  is  our  place;  see,  there's  grand- 
father's picture!" 

Upon  the  table,  near  the  plate  of  cold  meat 
and  the  bread,  we  had  left  an  open  Bible, 
kept  open  by  a  knife  and  fork  laid  across 
the  page,  at  these  words,  "Bless  the  Lord, 
Oh  my  soul,  and  forget  not  all  his  benefits." 

Thus  we  gave  Mrs.  A.  a  chance  to  get 
"ketched  up." 

Did  it  pay?    Yes! 


XI 


AGED  PILGRIMS 


HILDREN,  big  and  little, 
chattering  in  a  dozen  dif- 
ferent tongues,  swarm  up 
and  down  tenement  stairs, 
overflowing  onto  the  side- 
walk and  into  the  gutters;  but  tucked  away 
in  the  dark  basement,  and  up  under  the 
roof  in  the  attic,  are  the  old  people.  They 
must  live  where  rents  are  cheapest.  The 
time  is  past  when  they  can  earn  enough  for 
shelter  and  reasonable  food,  and  to-morrow 
holds  out  no  promise  for  better  things. 
They  are  in  the  land  where  it  is  always 
afternoon,  and  they  cling  to  the  tiny  room, 
which,  though  poor  and  shabby,  is  home, 
waiting  for  the  call  to  that  home  where 
they  shall  hunger  no  more. 

134 


Aged  Pilgrims  135 

In  that  memorable  winter  of  the  panic, 
when  so  many  of  the  wheels  of  industry 
had  stopped  turning,  charity  had  to  devise 
work  for  starving  people  of  all  ages  and 
kinds. 

In  our  searchings  that  winter  we  found 
an  old  lady  who  had  known  better  days, 
up  under  the  very  eaves  of  the  building,  her 
only  window  a  small  skylight.  Work  had 
stopped  and  hunger  had  resulted  in  weak- 
ness, until  she  was  not  able  to  go  up  and 
down  the  long  stairs.  There,  in  her  little 
home,  she  was  found  and  fed,  and  later 
placed  in  a  home  for  aged  women. 

For  many  years  an  old  German  couple 

had  lived  in  a  basement  on  B Street. 

The  dilapidated  blinds  on  the  windows  had 
to  be  kept  closed,  for  the  sidewalk  was 
higher  than  the  room,  and  mischievous  boys 
had  found  their  fun  in  making  the  cracks 
of  the  window  glass  a  little  larger  by  push- 
ing apple  and  banana  peelings  through  the 
openings.  This  front  room  was  parlor  and 


136  Helping  the  Helpless 

kitchen,  dining  room  and  bedroom,  and  the 
rear  room  was  the  shop,  where  the  old 
tinker  tried  to  mend  umbrellas  and  all  sorts 
of  tin  ware.  But  the  push-cart  peddlers  and 
the  five-cent  emporiums  had  so  vied  with 
each  other  in  reducing  the  price  of  kitchen 
ware  that  the  housewife  in  that  locality 
preferred  to  buy  shining  new  tins,  rather 
than  pay  for  mending  the  old  ones. 

By  odd  jobs,  as  holding  a  horse  on  a 
busy  street,  or  carrying  a  heavy  market 
basket,  a  nickel  now  and  then  was  added 
to  the  small  revenue  from  the  shop,  and  the 
old  couple  were  enabled,  for  a  good  while, 
to  earn  their  rent,  and  bread,  minus  butter. 
The  little  wife  had  ever  done  her  share  by 
scrubbing,  washing  and  knitting,  until  that 
merciless  fiend,  rheumatism,  gripped  her 
hands  and  knees.  Forty  years  ago  their 
three  children,  two  boys  and  a  girl,  were 
tucked  away  to  their  last  sleep  in  the 
Lutheran  Cemetery.  In  their  old  age  the 
parents  were  alone,  except  for  each  other. 


en     C 


^J         ° 

»*H  ^ 


O 


Q  <u 
W  S 
O  JS 


Aged  Pilgrims  137 

They  dreaded  separation  in  the  almshouse 
more  than  death.  Since  the  young  lives 
were  gone  there  was  no  incentive  to  learn 
English,  and  so  beyond  a  few  stray  words 
they  used  or  understood  only  the  language 
of  the  Fatherland. 

One  glad  day,  before  this  battle  for  bread 
had  turned  finally  against  them,  word  came 
from  across  the  ocean  that  a  relative,  the 
last  of  their  kin,  had  died  and  willed  them 
a  small  sum  for  their  old  age.  After  legal 
knots  were  untied  and  red  tape  unwound, 
and  a  German  lawyer  well  paid,  the  balance 
of  the  legacy  was  placed  in  their  hands. 
"A  staff  for  our  old  age  when  we  grow 
feeble  and  lame,  thank  God,  Ein  feste 
Burg  ist  unser  Gott,"  they  said,  as  they 
counted  over  the  dollars.  In  a  great,  strong 
building  on  the  Bowery  this  staff  would  be 
safe,  for  just  as  long  as  they  could  work 
they  would  not  lean  upon  it. 

A  neat,  leather-covered  book,  with  red 
lines  on  the  inside  and  letters  on  the  out- 


138  Helping  the  Helpless 

side,  was  handed  them  by  a  clerk,  who, 
peering  out  through  the  bars  of  his  office 
cage,  said  in  good,  strong  German,  "You 
must  keep  this  book  very  carefully.  Don't 
roll  or  fold  it.  Keep  it  clean  and  don't 
lose  it.  Be  sure,  now,  you  do  not  lose 
it.  Mind  what  I  say."  What  better  or 
safer  place  could  there  be  in  which  to  hide 
the  precious  book  than  inside  the  bolster 
case  under  the  pillows  of  the  feather  bed. 
When  any  errand  took  the  old  man  into 
nearness  to  the  bank  he  would  often  stand 
a  moment  to  look  the  building  over  from 
roof  to  door-step,  with  a  feeling  of  content. 
The  battle  for  bread  went  on  and  grew 
harder.  Tins  were  cheaper,  automobiles 
crowded  out  the  horses  he  used  to  hold, 
German  people  moved  away,  and  Italian 
women  had  no  need  of  help  with  their 
bundles,  or  did  not  understand  him.  Should 
they  begin  to  use  the  staff?  Not  yet;  not 
yet.  They  could  wait  longer,  until  there 
was  no  work,  and  they  were  more  feeble. 


Aged  Pilgrims  139 

When  the  "little  mother"  fell  and  had  to 
be  carried  to  a  hospital  the  old  man  said, 
"I  eat  so  little;  I  will  get  on  until  she  gets 
home,  and  then  we  must  use  the  money." 
Care,  kindness  and  skill  were  generously 
given  to  the  "little  mother," — a  foretaste  of 
heaven;  but  there  was  the  dear  man  alone, 
how  her  hungry  heart  longed  for  him — and 
the  home  with  him  was  best  of  all. 

Poor  as  it  was,  it  was  home,  and  upon 
her  return  she  sought  for  the  precious  bank 
book.  To  see  it  again  would  be  a  joy.  The 
big  bed  was  opened,  the  gay  patch-work 
quilt  thrown  back,  but  where  was  the  book  ? 
It  must  have  slipped  down,  or  dropped  be- 
hind— under  the  bed,  perhaps.  Where? 
The  book  was  gone.  Every  corner  was 
searched  in  vain.  Bismarck  and  old  Em- 
peror William,  grim  and  faded  under 
cracked  glass,  gave  no  cheer  as  she  turned 
the  frames  about  to  see  if  behind  them  the 
book  could  have  somehow  hidden  itself. 
The  old  tinker  joined  in  the  search,  and 


140  Helping  the  Helpless 

went  out  among  the  tins  and  refuse  of  the 
shop  to  hunt  The  book  was  gone;  surely 
gone ! 

Hoping  to  find  it,  fearing  to  tell  of  its 
loss,  ignorant  of  our  language,  and  believing 
that  losing  the  book  meant  losing  the 
money,  the  little  woman  kept  up  her  search 
— looking,  ever  looking.  The  tinker,  so 
sure  that  thieves  had  taken  the  book,  felt 
less  interest  in  the  search,  for  at  heart  he 
was  confident  that  the  book  had  been  stolen. 
Soon  the  weakness  of  old  age  crept  in  upon 
them,  like  an  incoming  tide — slowly,  stead- 
ily, surely.  To  live  they  must  have  help. 
A  missionary  lady  brought  to  them  each 
month  the  sum  which  the  landlord  asked  for 
the  rent,  a  kindly  nearby  baker  sent  an  oc- 
casional loaf,  the  market  man  often  gave 
them  a  bag  of  bones  and  a  few  vegetables. 
So  the  old  couple  managed  to  keep  soul  and 
body  together.  But  every  day  the  "little 
mother"  spent  some  of  her  time  looking, 
looking. 


Aged  Pilgrims  141 

Fresh  air  work,  as  it  should  be,  is  largely 
for  restless,  growing  children;  working 
girls  are  having  a  share  in  such  outings  to 
the  country,  to  keep  in  health  and  heart 
for  their  work;  old  people,  these  grown- 
ups, in  their  second  childhood,  are  being 
remembered  also  in  fresh  air  plans,  by 
generous  friends  who  give  them  one  day 
during  the  summer. 

To  such  an  outing,  at  a  home  near  the 
Sound,  our  old  couple,  the  tinker  and  his 
wife,  were  invited,  with  about  forty  others, 
all  over  sixty  years  of  age.  The  journey 
seemed  formidable;  the  New  York  Central 
Station  seemed  at  the  ends  of  the  earth, 
and  would  it  be  safe  to  leave  their  home 
all  day, — the  lock  was  rickety  and  some- 
body might  get  in  and  steal.  But  they 
wanted  to  go, — it  was  a  great  event,  this 
being  invited  to  a  party. 

There  was  no  question  about  clothes.  In 
the  hair-trunk,  with  its  big,  brass  nails, 
relic  of  the  old  home  near  the  Rhine,  was 


142  Helping  the  Helpless 

her  best  gown,  the  one  she  had  owned  for 
forty  years.  Gowns  may  grow  full  or 
gowns  may  grow  scant;  they  may  be  long 
or  they  may  be  short; — her  one  gown  was 
to  her  always  in  fashion.  When  the  tinker 
was  arrayed  in  the  old,  faded  blue  coat  and 
the  high  hat  of  ancient  shape,  decorated 
with  many  a  dent,  and  the  little  wife  in 
gown  and  wrap  and  bonnet  and  mitts  a 
half-century  old,  they  were  a  sight  for  the 
envy  of  the  most  burlesque  of  vaudeville. 

Not  since  they  went  out  to  lay  their  last 
child  in  the  cemetery  had  they  been  so  far 
from  home,  and  "little  mother"  timidly 
clung  to  the  arm  of  her  tall  and  distin- 
guished-looking husband,  never  for  one 
moment  letting  go  her  hold.  The  day  was 
glorious,  the  sunshine  and  cool  breeze,  the 
great  trees  and  broad  lawns,  with  crested 
water  beyond  blue  as  the  sky,  made  it  seem 
like  heaven  to  these  guests  from  the  down- 
town city  streets. 

The  lunch  was  so  delicious,   served  by 


Aged  Pilgrims  143 

smiling  ladies  in  such  pretty  colors,  with 
jewels  and  tinkling  ornaments,  that  the  old 
people  were  silent  with  wonder  and  admira- 
tion. Never  could  they  forget  that  day. 
Still  clinging  arm  in  arm,  the  old  couple 
returned  to  the  basement  home,  and  after 
putting  back  into  the  hair-trunk  their 
festive  garments,  "little  mother"  lighted  her 
lamp  for  another  search  to  find  the  missing 
bank  book. 

Some  months  later,  as  the  missionary 
lady  called  with  the  rent,  she  said,  "I  am 
sorry  for  you,  dear  people,  that  you  have 
not  been  willing  to  let  me  help  you  move 
out  from  this  damp  place.  Now  the  law 
says  you  must.  This  building  is  condemned 
and  is  to  be  pulled  down,  and  I  am  arrang- 
ing for  two  small  rooms  upstairs,  on  the 
next  street." 

"Oh,  I  cannot  go  away!  Oh,  no,  we 
must  stay  a  little  longer,"  pleaded  "little 
mother,"  "we  can't  go  away  yet." 


144  Helping  the  Helpless 

But  the  law  had  to  take  its  course;  they 
must  move  out. 

Between  the  front  room  and  the  shop 
was — not  a  closet,  surely;  it  could  not 
rightly  be  called  anything  but  a  "poke-hole," 
hardly  fit  for  a  coal-bin.  Old  papers,  old 
rags,  old  tins,  had  accumulated  in  it.  The 
ever-searching  German  woman  had  spent 
hours  with  her  little  lamp  in  there  until  her 
husband  had  forbidden  her  to  stay  longer 
in  the  dampness.  Now  she  begged  to  have 
everything  there  but  the  old  tins,  taken  to 
the  new  home — nothing  was  she  willing  to 
throw  away. 

In  pity,  a  compromise  was  made,  and  the 
missionary  lady  said,  "I  will  bring  a  big 
light,  and  together  we  will  sort  over  the 
old  stuff,  and  then  only  that  which  can  do 
somebody  some  good  shall  be  saved ;  all  the 
rest  must  be  left  for  the  dump-cart." 

As  the  rags  were  pushed  about  and  some 
of  them  handled,  a  rotten  place  in  the  old 
floor  was  seen.  Boards  had  fallen  apart 


Aged  Pilgrims  145 

and  lime  and  broken  plaster  were  sprinkled 
over  the  place.  The  quick  eyes  of  the 
woman  who  had  been  for  so  many  years 
looking  for  a  leather-covered  book  spied 
something.  What  is  it?  Down  into  the 
hole  she  dug;  there  was  the  bank  book, 
mouldy  and  stained ! 

"Ach,  Gott,  im  Himmel!"  she  cried, 
tears  running  down  her  face,  as  she  clasped 
it  to  her  heart  "Mein  Buch,  Mein  Buch!" 
A  greedy  rat  had  evidently  tasted  the 
corner,  dragged  it  under  the  broken  floor, 
and  left  it  there. 

Interest  upon  interest  was  added  at  the 
bank,  when  the  missionary  lady  took  the 
almost  illegible  book  to  be  balanced.  There 
was  money  enough  to  rent  part  of  a  cottage 
in  Jersey,  with  a  bit  of  land  which  the  old 
man  could  help  work,  the  owner  of  which 
was  a  young  German,  and  his  wife,  whose 
grandparents  had  lived  in  the  same  village 
where  the  tinker  had  been  a  boy.  There 
was  money  enough  to  keep  the  old  couple 


146  Helping  the  Helpless 

in  frugal  comfort,  "a  staff  to  lean  on"  in 
their  oldest  years,  and  money  enough  to 
lay  them  away,  after  a  little  time,  near  their 
children  in  God's  Acre. 

GOING  HOME 

Out  of  the  chill  and  the  shadow 

Into  the  thrill  and  the  shine; 
Out  of  the  dearth  and  the  famine 

Into  the  fullness  divine. 
Up  from  the  strife  and  the  battle 

(Oft  with  the  shameful  defeat), 
Up  to  the  palm  and  the  laurel, 

O,  but  the  rest  will  be  sweet! 


XII 


JOHN 

HE  home  of  the  Wurtley 
family  was  on  the  top 
floor  of  a  high  building. 
Many  tenements,  filled  to 
overflowing  with  children 
and  adults,  were  below.  At  the  last  narrow 
stairway,  the  advantage  of  these  higher 
rooms  could  be  felt,  for  there  was  a  rush 
of  fresh  air  and  a  bit  of  real  daylight.  Of 
course  there  were  some  drawbacks.  The 
stairs  were  long  and  the  roof  not  quite  the 
best,  for  on  a  rainy  day,  when  the  wind 
blew  in  a  certain  direction,  it  was  necessary 
to  put  up  the  family  umbrella  over  the  bed. 
This  shelter  was  a  comfort  to  the  tidy 
English  mother,  and  a  sprinkle  of  water 
mattered  little  to  the  so-called  head  of  the 
house,  for  he  was  often  so  filled  with  gin 

147 


148  Helping  the  Helpless 

that  it  seemed  as  though  a  few  drops  of 
rain,  if  it  should  strike  him,  would  only 
hiss  and  splutter  like  water  on  a  hot  griddle. 
John  Wurtley,  the  elder,  chose  this  sky- 
light home  not  only  because  the  rent  was 
cheaper,  but  because  he  disliked  neighbors. 
His  English  tastes  would  have  led  him,  had 
he  been  able  to  indulge  them,  to  have  his 
home  shut  in  by  a  thick  hedge  and  a  high 
wall  with  a  massive  gateway.  Even  a  moat 
with  a  drawbridge  would  have  pleased  him. 
The  only  one  who  passed  by  the  door  of 
their  attic  home  was  an  old  man  who 
worked  at  night  and  slept  all  day.  But 
practical  Mrs.  Wurtley  saw  other  advan- 
tages in  this  abode  of  two  rooms  on  the 
top  floor,  and  as  no  one  used  the  passage- 
way, John,  the  younger,  had  an  airy  bed- 
room all  to  himself.  In  a  corner  of  the 
hall,  on  a  bag  of  excelsior  and  shavings, 
with  an  old  comforter,  the  boy  rested  and 
watched  the  stars  through  his  curtainless 
windows,  the  wind  playing  with  his  hair. 


John  149 

"No  rum  for  me,"  he  would  mutter  to 
himself  after  his  father  had  stumbled  up 
the  stairs.  "Why  does  mother  look  so 
white  ?  Rum.  Why  does  she  have  to  work 
so  awful  hard?  Rum.  Why  are  we 
hungry?  Rum.  No  rum  for  me — 
never!"  And  he  would  pound  the  old  tick- 
ing-bag bed  with  his  fist. 

Young  John's  fourteenth  birthday  was 
eventful  because  on  that  day  he  could  go 
to  work.  He  was  now  a  man,  and  would 
"get  a  job."  Peter,  the  younger  brother, 
kept  on  selling  newspapers  before  and  after 
school.  The  mother's  feet  kept  the  tireless 
sewing  machine  running,  for  this  meant 
bread  and  shelter  for  herself  and  children. 

Mr.  Wurtley  had  a  good  trade  but  earned 
very  little  more  than  enough  to  pay  the 
saloon  bill.  When  the  fire  was  low  and 
the  shoes  were  shabby,  John  would  grumble 
about  Dad  keeping  things  going  all  night 
down  at  the  corner,  where  the  brilliantly 
lighted  saloon  was  always  warm. 


150  Helping  the  Helpless 

Mrs.  Wurtley  had  no  time  or  strength, 
no  suitable  clothes,  and  no  desire  to  go  out 
on  the  street  or  to  make  friends  with  any- 
one. With  her  old  shawl  on  her  head  she 
could  reach  the  grocery  quite  unnoticed,  and 
so  do  any  buying  to  which  her  willing  boys 
had  not  attended. 

Into  this  monotony  of  life  a  cheery,  tact- 
ful missionary  lady  came  one  day  in  her 
tour  of  house-to-house  visitation. 

The  tired  and  busy  woman  dropped  her 
work  for  a  moment  and  with  real,  natural 
courtesy  welcomed  the  unknown  friend. 
"No,"  she  said,  "I  can't  get  out  to  Church, 
leastways,  there's  reasons,  and  as  for  that 
Mothers'  Meetin' — that's  not  for  me.  I 
can't  go,  but  I  thank  you  for  invitin'  me. 
Yes,  in  the  old  country  I  went  some  times, 
them  was  better  days.  No,  my  boys  don't 
go  to  no  Sunday  School  or  Meetin' — thank 
ye  for  askin',  but  it's  all  we  can  do  to  git 
along  as  we  be." 

Again  and  again  the  cheery  lady  climbed 


John  151 

the  stairs  and  called  on  the  shut-in  woman. 
She  brought  to  her  a  few  flowers,  or  a 
picture  card  of  some  rural  English  scene, 
or  a  few  papers  of  Sabbath  Readings.  The 
welcome  was  always  cordial  and  she  was 
always  thanked  for  coming. 

The  caller  did  not  see  the  father  or  the 
boys  until  one  day  when,  as  she  climbed 
the  stairs,  a  woman  called  out  as  she  passed 
her  door,  "You  won't  git  in  up  there, — 
tain't  no  use  for  you  to  climb  any  futher 
— them  English  is  that  proud.  Her  boy 
got  in  a  fight  and  is  hurt, — they're  no  better 
than  none  of  us,  if  they  does  hold  their 
heads  up  so  high.  You  won't  git  in." 

But  the  cheery  lady  kept  on  climbing,  and 
sure  enough  there  was  young  John,  sitting 
with  his  swollen  feet  upon  the  edge  of  the 
washtub,  while  the  sewing  machine,  as  usual, 
was  buzzing  and  rattling  along  through  the 
long  seam.  The  boy  frowned  and  the 
mother  looked  anxious  as  the  visitor  en- 
tered the  room,  but  she  gave  a  cordial 


152  Helping  the  Helpless 

greeting  and  began  chatting  with  the 
mother.  It  was  as  impossible  to  withstand 
the  kindness  of  the  caller  as  to  shut  out  the 
warmth  of  the  sunshine,  and  John  became 
so  interested  in  the  story  of  "her  boys  in 
her  Club"  over  at  the  Mission  that  he  asked 
her  what  it  would  cost  to  join.  "We  fellers 
haven't  got  any  places  to  have  fun,"  said 
the  boy,  "nobody  wants  us  'cept  the  saloon 
man.  He  gives  us  a  good  welcome  and  says 
we  needn't  buy  any  drinks,  but  just  come 
in  and  play  cards,  and  when  it's  cold  he 
offers  us  just  a  taste  of  something  to  warm 
us  up.  But — No,  I  don't — you  bet — see 
enough  of  it,  don't  we  mother?"  Calls  and 
kindness  at  last  won  John  into  the  Club,  at 
Sunday  School  he  became  a  loyal  member, 
and  after  a  time  he  joined  the  Christian  En- 
deavor Society. 

Like  an  officer  with  a  medal  of  honor 
John  went  to  work  one  day  with  his  C.  E. 
badge  on  his  coat.  Poor  as  they  were, 
with  his  stock  of  shirts  and  collars  so  small 


John  153 

that  it  seemed  impossible  for  him  always 
to  look  the  gentleman  John  called  himself, 
his  mother  kept  him  neat  by  often  taking 
his  shirt  and  collar  after  he  had  gone  to 
bed  and  washing  and  ironing  them  ready 
for  the  next  day's  use. 

"Say,  what  you  got  on  there,"  said  one 
of  the  boys  at  the  store  as  they  ate  their 
lunch  in  the  basement,  "C  E. — what's 
that?"  "Come,  you  old  dude,"  said  another, 
"take  it  off — chuck  it, — you  can't  play  no 
game  on  us.  C  E. !  Take  it  off."  At 
the  refusal,  a  big  bully  grabbed  John  and 
put  his  head  under  the  faucet.  "I'll  take 
some  of  your  old  dood  starch  out  of  you." 
At  the  next  noon  the  battle  went  on;  these 
boys  filled  his  lunch  box  with  sand.  "That's 
C.  E.  stuff,"  said  the  bully.  "Eat  it  or  run 
home  and  tell  your  Ma."  "You've  got  to 
take  off  that  'ere  C.  E.  medal,  d'ye  hear?" 
John  kept  his  temper  so  well,  showed  such 
grit  in  holding  on  to  his  C.  E.  badge,  that 
his  persecutors  began  to  wonder,  and  one 


154  Helping  the  Helpless 

day  the  leader  said, — "I  say,  fellers,  let's 
go  to  that  C.  E.  place  and  see  what's  it  like, 
anyhow.  We'll  get  up  some  kind  of  a  row 
and  have  a  good  time, — so  here's  for  'C.  E.' 
— Come  on!" 

They  came  to  the  Club,  were  welcomed 
and  attracted,  and  later  several  joined  the 
Sunday  School  group  taught  by  the  "cheery 
lady."  Even  the  bully  liked  it  all  well 
enough  to  hold  on  for  many  weeks.  Sun- 
day School  did  not  last  more  than  two 
hours,  Club  Meeting  came  only  once  a 
week,  and  the  saloon  doors  were  always 
open. 

The  story  of  John's  heroism  in  wearing 
the  C.  E.  badge  was  related  to  the  boys 
of  a  more  fortunate  class,  who  were  pupils 
in  a  military  school  on  the  Hudson.  The 
major  and  head  teacher  of  this  school 
had  a  broader  outlook  on  the  equipment  for 
life  than  can  be  given  by  any  curriculum  of 
study.  The  pupils  came  from  well-to-do 
homes,  where  everything  that  could  be  done 


John  155 

for  their  well-being  and  pleasure,  was 
looked  after.  But  the  ice-boats,  the  ball 
games,  the  drill,  and  the  study,  were  not 
enough.  There  were  Sunday  night  talks  on 
how  other  boys  live,  how  other  boys  have 
succeeded;  and  on  some  of  these  occasions 
John's  story  found  an  appreciative  audi- 
ence. 

As  a  result,  these  schoolboys  agreed  to 
spend  less  of  their  spending-money  allow- 
ance at  the  pie  store,  and  to  become  re- 
sponsible for  the  rent  of  a  room  in  a  down- 
town tenement  to  be  called  after  the  school, 
"The  Mohegan  Room." 

The  Wurtley  family  were  moved  into 
this  tenement,  and  were  given  the  use  of 
the  kitchen  and  one  small  bedroom,  while 
Mrs.  Wurtley  was  to  use  and  care  for  the 
larger,  "The  Mohegan  Room."  Two  of  the 
Club  boys  paid  for  the  other  small  bed- 
room. This  plan  was  possible  because  Mr. 
Wurtley  had  gone  away. 

One  big  wooden  rocker,  a  few  cheap  pic- 


156  Helping  the  Helpless 

tures,  a  folding  bed,  and  a  table  brightened 
by  a  turkey-red  cloth,  well  covered  with 
magazines,  papers  and  games  which  the 
boys  of  the  military  school  sent,  after  they 
had  finished  with  them,  made  an  attractive 
home  for  the  boys.  Here  came  Ben  and 
Jim  and  Tony  and  Joe,  and  others  of  their 
kind,  and  as  a  patron  saint  in  the  big  rocker 
was  John's  mother,  who  sat  there  in  the 
evenings  mending  or  sewing  on  buttons  for 
her  boys. 

When  it  was  found  best  to  give  up  the 
"Mohegan  Room"  its  good  work  did  not 
stop.  "If  you  have  any  more  young  men 
like  the  John  Wurtley  whom  you  sent  us," 
wrote  the  head  of  a  large  business  house  on 
Broadway,  "remember  there  is  always  a 
place  here." 

As  this  is  a  true  story  of  real  people 
downtown  a  sad  chapter  must  be  added. 
The  dark  follows  the  light,  but  the  sunshine 
always  comes  after  the  clouds.  Peter  did 
not  jump  quick  enough  with  his  armful  of 


John  157 

papers  one  night  and  was  killed  in  an  acci- 
dent. Mr.  Wurtley  came  back  worse  than 
ever,  if  that  be  possible,  and  before  he  died 
he  induced  his  wife,  the  good  mother  of 
the  boys,  to  try  a  little  drink  to  drown  her 
sorrows,  and  for  a  time  she  yielded  to 
temptation. 

Through  all  this  terrible  trouble  John 
stood  firm.  The  cheery  lady  was  his  friend, 
others  stood  by  him,  and  when  father  died 
the  death  of  a  drunkard,  mother  rallied, 
and  became  again  the  true  woman  she  had 
been  through  many  years. 

Now,  at  the  head  of  a  large  business 
house  in  New  York,  John  has  an  income 
which  enables  him  to  rent  a  very  comfort- 
able uptown  apartment  near  a  park  where 
his  wife  and  two  children  and  the  aged 
mother  live  happily.  And,  best  of  all,  the 
home  is  a  Christian  home  with  no  rum,  or 
its  associate  evils. 


XIII 


'HIS  FATHER  SAW  HIM" 

T   was   the   year   of   hard 
times,    and   the    financial 
wheels   moved   so   slowly 
that  many  men  willing  to 
work  could  not  get  a  job. 
An  American  family  pulled  up  stakes  in 
the  Massachusetts  town  where  they  lived, 
and  came  to  the  big  city,  where  surely  there 
would  be  plenty  of  work. 

Their  savings  were  used  carefully;  but 
rent  and  food  and  fire  and  shoes  made  great 
inroads  on  the  little  fund.  The  big  tene- 
ment house,  where  they  lived,  swarmed 
with  men  and  women  whose  language  was 
a  jargon;  and  the  halls  were  full  of  the 
smell  of  garlic.  It  was  all  so  foreign — so 
different  from  the  country  town,  that  the 

158 


"His  Father  Saw  Him"        159 

little  family  kept  very  closely  to  themselves. 

But  our  worker,  whose  district  took  in 
that  part  of  Bleecker  Street,  found  them, 
and  the  wife  soon  learned  to  prize  her 
friendship,  and  the  children  watched  for  the 
coming  of  the  silver-haired  lady. 

"No,"  said  the  man,  to  the  cordial  invita- 
tion, "Thank  you.  I  ain't  no  use  for  Church 
or  meetin's.  I  was  a  sailor  a  good  many 
years,  and  I  don't  feel  good  under  a  big 
roof.  What  I  want  is  work — work.  My 
wife  and  the  kids  likes  your  mother's 
meetin's;  they  does  her  good,  she  says,  and 
anyhow  the  coffee  and  a  little  visitin'  seems 
to  chirk  her  up — it's  good  of  you." 

A  few  odd  jobs,  here  and  there,  were  all 
the  work  the  man  secured.  The  good 
steady  job  did  not  turn  up,  and  things  began 
to  look  dark. 

The  silver  watch  went  into  pawn;  then 
the  big  overcoat,  the  man  declaring  the  city 
was  so  warm  he  did  not  need  it.  Little 
trinkets  of  early  days  followed,  for  the 


160  Helping  the  Helpless 

children  were  cold  and  hungry.  At  last 
came  a  sleety  day,  when  the  landlord 
threatened  to  put  them  all  out  on  the  street, 
and  the  wife  slipped  over  to  the  place  of 
the  "three  balls,"  and  handed  over  her 
precious  wedding  ring. 

When  the  husband  returned,  hungry  and 
cold,  and  bitter  at  heart,  and  saw  his  wife's 
hand  without  its  golden  circle,  he  burst  out 
into  grievous  words  against  God  and  man, 
and  flinging  his  arms  around  his  wife,  said, 
"Now,  I'm  off;  if  God  don't  help  me,  the 
devil  will — if  you  don't  see  me,  I'm 
drowned — you'll  be  better  off!" 

With  a  slam  of  the  door,  and  a  clattering 
down  the  tenement  stairs,  he  disappeared, 
and  he  did  not  come  back. 

What  could  the  poor  woman  do  but  lean 
on  the  patient,  loving  missionary  lady  who 
had  drunk  of  the  cup  of  sorrow  herself, 
and  knew  where  to  lead  the  distressed 
woman  to  find  comfort. 

Together  they  sought  the  morgue;  they 


"His  Father  Saw  Him "        161 

visited  the  jail;  and  again  took  the  weary- 
trip  to  the  morgue;  police  were  questioned 
— but  all  in  vain.  The  man  had  disappeared 
utterly. 

Many  of  the  lines  of  our  work  were  used. 
House  to  house  visitation,  Mothers'  Meet- 
ings, Day  Nursery,  had  all  been  tried. 
Now  we  needed  money  to  redeem  the 
woman's  warm  suit  and  good  shoes. 

One  institution  was  found  where  the 
seven-year-old  boy  could  be  cared  for.  We 
found  a  place  where  the  woman  could  do 
housework,  in  a  Jersey  town,  and  nearby 
was  a  farmer,  who  would  board  the  four- 
year-old  girl.  It  was  near  enough  to  the 
mother  so  that  once  a  week  on  her  "day 
out,"  she  could  appease  the  hunger  of  her 
mother-heart  by  having  her  baby  in  her 
arms. 

The  first  money  she  earned  went  to  the 
pawn  shop,  and  redeemed  her  wedding 
ring,  and  next  the  big  shaggy  great  coat. 
"If  I  can't  ever  see  him,  I  love  to  see  his 


162  Helping  the  Helpless 

coat,  and  some  day  our  boy  maybe  will 
wear  it." 

One  Sunday  afternoon  nearly  two  years 
after  this,  we  were  at  a  little  song  service, 
in  one  of  the  lodging  houses  for  men  on 
the  Bowery.  At  the  close,  the  men  were 
invited  to  go  to  the  Broome  Street  Taber- 
nacle for  the  evening  meeting.  A  few  of 
the  men  lagged  along  behind,  and  joined 
the  crowd  gathered  about  the  steps,  where 
a  short  welcoming  service  was  carried  on. 
The  little  organ  was  unfolded,  and  we  be- 
gan with  the  hymn,  "Jesus  is  calling,  Jesus 
is  calling — Calling  to-day,  calling  to-day." 
A  few  words  followed,  the  theme  being  the 
Father's  love  for  his  prodigal  son.  In  the 
far  country  the  Father  had  not  forgotten 
his  child.  He  saw  him  even  "when  he  was 
afar  off."  God  had  seen  each  man  of  this 
audience,  in  all  his  wanderings,  and  was 
ready  with  his  welcome. 

One  man  who  had  followed  from  the 
lodging  house  listened  intently,  with  his 


"His  Father  Saw  Him"        163 

eyes  riveted,  not  on  the  speaker  but  on  the 
sweet  face  of  the  missionary — our  dear 
Mrs.  Safford,  gone  long  since  to  her  rich 
reward. 

At  the  close  he  quickly  stood  by  her  and 
touched  her  hand,  saying,  "Do  you  know 
me?  Where's  my  wife?"  A  slight  hesita- 
tion made  the  man  exclaim,  "For  God's 
sake  don't  tell  me  she's  dead !" 

That  bitter  day,  when  the  man  rushed 
away,  he  found  himself  on  the  edge  of  the 
water,  with  the  mad  thought  of  destroying 
himself.  A  ship  was  just  starting  out;  he 
was  hailed  by  some  one  of  the  crew,  taken 
aboard,  and  sailed  away.  On  his  return  he 
visited  his  former  tenement  house,  but  only 
strangers  with  a  foreign  tongue  answered 
his  questions.  On  the  Tabernacle  steps,  he 
recognized  the  face  of  the  missionary  lady, 
whom  he  had  met  in  his  home. 

The  rest  of  this  little  story  is  soon  told. 
We  helped  bring  the  family  together,  and 
establish  their  home.  The  man  became  a 


164  Helping  the  Helpless 

Christian.  Prosperity  followed.  He  gradu- 
ally paid  for  a  cozy  house  on  Long  Island, 
and  he  and  his  family  are  valuable  members 
of  the  Church  and  the  community. 


"And  he  came  to  his  father.  But  when  he 
was  yet  a  great  way  off,  his  father  saw  him, 
and  had  compassion,  and  ran,  and  fell  on 
his  neck,  and  kissed  him." 


XIV 
SCHOLARSHIPS 


LD  and  feeble,  her  home  a 
rear  tenement,  Mrs.  G. 
was  yet  a  real  Christian 
lady.  She  had  been  led 
into  the  joy  and  peace  of 
a  trust  in  Christ,  and  it  shone  in  her 
wrinkled  face  and  faded  eyes. 

Living  with  her  was  her  dear  grandchild, 
as  sweet  and  bright  as  a  bunch  of  heather. 
Well  might  she  be  called  "Annie  Laurie." 
The  grandfather  had  done  what  he  could 
for  his  adopted  country  when  he  shouldered 
his  musket  and  marched  away  behind  the 
Stars  and  Stripes  to  do  battle  in  the  South- 
land: "Greater  love  hath  no  man  than  this — 
that  a  man  lay  down  his  life." 

Because  of  this  sacrifice,  pension  money 
came  to  the  old  widow,  through  the  long 

165 


166  Helping  the  Helpless 

years.  It  was  not  enough  for  any  luxuries, 
but  young  Annie  tried  to  help  as  best  she 
could  before  and  after  school.  There  were 
errands  to  be  done  for  neighbors;  a  baby 
to  tend  for  some  mother  who  had  no  care- 
taker for  her  little  ones;  or  perhaps  the 
windows  of  a  tenement  needed  washing, 
and  Annie  on  Saturday,  could  take  off  the 
dust  and  dirt  and  let  in  the  sunshine.  Thus, 
every  weelc,  Annie  brought  in  dimes  which 
helped  the  old  grandmother's  scanty  purse. 
Surely  "little  Annie  Laurie"  was  none  the 
less  a  lady.  If  "a  man's  a  man  for  a' 
that,"  is  not  a  girl  a  lady  for  a'  that? 

In  public  school  little  Annie  was  at  the 
head  of  her  class;  at  Sunday  School  and 
Christian  Endeavor  she  was  a  leader.  As 
the  girl  matured  and  grew  still  prettier  and 
more  attractive,  the  need  of  different  sur- 
roundings and  more  refined  social  life,  with 
other  opportunities  for  education,  became 
very  apparent.  We  had  watched  her 
growth,  we  had  seen  from  month  to  month^ 


Scholarships  167 


and  year  to  year  the  need  to  this  young 
life  of  a  different  atmosphere,  outside  of  the 
love  and  care  of  the  old  grandmother. 

The  gift  of  scholarships  at  the  Moody 
Schools  had  been  given  to  me  by  our  far- 
sighted  and  generous  friend,  Miss  Helen 
Gould,  now  Mrs.  Finley  J.  Shepard.  The 
question  which  confronted  us  was,  would 
the  old  lady  be  willing  to  let  her  only  com- 
panion, the  child  she  loved  and  lived  for, 
go  away  from  her?  Would  she  not,  with 
her  small  income,  realize  the  earning  power 
in  shop  or  factory  of  so  bright  a  girl;  and 
so  prefer  to  keep  her  granddaughter  with 
her?  Would  she  realize  the  poor  surround- 
ings to  which  she  had  become  familiar,  and 
insist  upon  the  really  excellent  advantages 
of  the  High  School  for  which  the  girl  was 
now  ready? 

With  one  of  our  trained  nurses  who  had 
cared  for  the  old  lady  at  many  times  of 
sickness  and  had  been  a  very  special  friend 
to  little  Annie,  I  went  down  to  the  tenement 


168  Helping  the  Helpless 

home,  to  put  this  important  decision  before 
the  old  grandmother,  while  Annie  was  at 
school.  The  passage  way  from  the  front 
of  the  building  on  the  street  to  the  rear 
house  at  the  back  was  so  narrow,  that  we 
had  to  hold  back  our  skirts  from  the  white- 
wash of  the  newly  cleaned  walls;  carefully 
we  passed  the  garbage  barrels  of  the  inner 
court,  and  entering  the  rear  house,  climbed 
one  dark  flight  of  stairs  to  Mrs.  G.'s  door. 
A  smiling  face  greeted  our  coming  and 
everything  was  neatness  itself  within;  the 
kitchen  stove  shone  like  a  mirror;  the  floor 
little  Annie  kept  scrubbed,  was  as  the  oft 
quoted  expression  puts  it,  "clean  enough  to 
eat  off  of."  The  teakettle  sang  cheerily  and 
cups  were  laid  out  on  the  table  for  our 
coming. 

Sitting  there  together  we  drew  the  picture 
of  the  Northfield  school  buildings  sur- 
rounded by  great  trees  with  grass  and 
flowers,  and  the  lovely  views  on  every  side, 
of  the  grand  old  hills,  and  the  winding 


Scholarships  169 


river.  We  told  of  the  valuable  instruction, 
the  comfortable  rooms,  the  happy  girls,  and 
the  beautiful  and  practical  training  for 
Christian  service.  The  old  lady's  face  be- 
gan to  glow,  there  was  no  shadow  nor  word 
of  her  own  future  loneliness,  and  how  hard 
it  would  be  to  live  without  the  grand- 
daughter, who  was  the  life  and  light  of 
her  heart  and  home.  At  last  she  quietly 
said,  "Wait,  wait,  I  must  see  what  my 
Lord  tells  me  to  do,  I  must  ask  Him." 
Mounting  a  wooden  chair  she  reached  up, 
and  took  down  from  a  high  shelf  at  the 
side  of  the  room  a  ticking  bag  with  some- 
thing large  and  heavy  within  it.  We  helped 
her  step  down  as  she  kept  her  bundle 
clasped  in  her  arms,  the  ticking  bag  was 
removed,  and  then  she  came  to  an  inner 
white  bag  and  carefully  brought  out  from 
it  a  large  old  family  Bible  in  heavy  binding. 
"You  see,"  said  Mrs.  G.,  "the  plaster  is 
often  a  bit  loose  and  shakes  down  on  every- 
thing; I  always  have  the  outside  bag  to 


170  Helping  the  Helpless 

keep  it  off,  and  then  a  nice  clean  white  bag 
is  a  good  proper  cover  for  my  dear  old 
Bible."  With  the  old  wrinkled  hands  laid 
on  the  cover  there  was  a  moment  of  silent 
prayer,  and  then  with  closed  eyes  the  Book 
was  opened  tenderly  and  one  old  knotted 
finger  laid  on  a  verse  in  "Isaiah,"  which  she 
read  and  then  re-read,  looking  up  at  us  with 
a  smile  which  made  the  old  faded, 
wrinkled  face  beautiful.  The  crumbling 
plaster,  the  dingy  wall,  the  tenement  houses 
were  forgotten,  all  the  old  life  slipped  out 
of  sight,  and  the  uplift  and  outlook  of  the 
vision  was  of  the  kingdom  of  God — service 
for  Him — and  trust  in  His  power  and 
peace. 

"Behold,  I  will  do  a  new  thing;  now  it  shall 
spring  forth ;  shall  ye  not  know  it  ?  I  will  even 
make  a  way  in  the  wilderness,  and  rivers  in  the 
desert." 

"Yes,"  said  the  old  lady,  with  the  open 
Bible  still  on  her  lap,  "my  girl  may  go  to 
the  Christian  School,  the  Lord  tells  me." 


Scholarships  171 

Annie  went  to  Northfield.  Not  for  long 
did  the  grandmother  have  to  live  alone,  for 
God  took  her  after  a  short  illness  from  the 
tenement  to  a  mansion  prepared  for  her. 

Of  the  honors  Annie  won,  of  the  service 
she  rendered,  at  school  and  later  college, 
we  may  not  write.  She  is  not  a  part  of 
our  downtown  life.  In  a  distant  city  Annie 
and  her  educated,  Christian  husband  are 
making  their  home  an  inspiration  to  all  who 
come  within  its  far  reaching  influence.  It 
is  a  lovely  and  loving  home  such  as  Jesus, 
were  He  here,  would,  when  weary  at  the 
nightfall,  want  to  visit  even  as  at  Bethany. 

Other  girls  and  boys  for  whom  we  have 
worked,  have  made  the  most  of  their  lives 
by  means  of  these  scholarships,  so  that 
many  women  and  men  to-day  are  in  large 
places  of  Christian  usefulness  and  look  back 
gratefully  to  the  time  when  they  had  "their 
chance." 

A   girl    who    determined    to   become   a 


172  Helping  the  Helpless 

teacher  of  ability  had  to  struggle  with  con- 
ditions caused  by  the  arrest  of  her  father; 
yet  she  succeeded. 

A  leader  of  men  was  a  boy  with  the 
awful  handicap  of  a  drunken  parent. 

A  poor  girl  who  desired  a  musical  educa- 
tion overcame  all  her  difficulties,  and  is  an 
artist  and  an  exceptional  teacher  of  music 
to-day. 

A  boy  whose  bed  consisted  of  two  chairs 
or  the  floor,  is  now  doing  editorial  work. 

A  lad  of  grit  and  go,  whose  home  was 
very  poor,  is  now  well  up  in  the  legal  pro- 
fession. 

An  Italian  lad  who  studied  the  life  of 
Lincoln  at  night  in  his  tenement  room,  and 
shined  shoes  on  a  ferryboat  during  the  day, 
has  now  the  prefix  of  "Honorable"  to  his 
name. 

"Honour  and  shame  from  no  condition  rise; 
Act  well  your  part,  there  all  the  honour  lies." 


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